Man at the Door
My room is dark while Clara, my wife, is sleeping next to me soundly; meanwhile I’m wide awake, eyes transfixed on the digital alarm clock. The red letters spell the time: 11:59. Mentally, I count the seconds down like I have for the last month. Three, two, one. The red letters switch, midnight, and a small sound echoes through the house.
Knock, knock, knock.
Soundlessly, I climb out of my bed making sure not to wake my wife. It’s better if she’s asleep for this part. I slide the deadbolt over the bedroom door.
The hallway to the front door is not long, but in the dark it stretches out. Family pictures and memories fill the walls between windows. Outside, the cul-de-sac is silent, lit by warm orange streetlamps. All of the neighbouring houses are empty, still under various levels of construction. We were supposed to be the only couple currently in the neighborhood, taking it on its maiden voyage. Testing the waters.
There are no more knocks from the door, but the fogged glass that takes up the upper half betrays the person outside. A tall looming shadow is standing perfectly still, hand raised up next to their head as if they were frozen the moment after they knocked on the door.
Slap. A soft but sudden crack echoes through the house, as I slap myself into focus. You got this Felix, I think.
“Hello Felix,” the man says as I open the door. He is dressed in all denim. A Canadian tuxedo. Covering his face, is a perfectly white porcelain mask. A crude smiley face is drawn with permanent marker on the surface. Despite the hour, the tone of his voice as he greets me is that of a joke, like he finds the whole interaction funny.
“Hello,” I say.
“Can I come in?” he says again taunting.
Every molecule of my being wants to say no. I’ve seen enough vampire movies to think that, simply refusing entry is an option. That I’d be safe if I did so. “Yeah,” I say, a tremble in my voice.
“Oh joy!” The man says, clapping his hands excitedly.
He brushes by me, and I can catch a whiff of dollar-store cologne on his body. He knows the layout of the house, as he walks down the hallway, and as he does every time he walks through the entrance way, he admires the photos of my family as he passes them. He leans in closer to one, and strokes his chin. “Gosh, Tim’s grown up, hasn’t he?” he says giddily.
I lock the front door.
Same as every night, for the last month, I find him sitting at the kitchen table. A singular ivory die is placed in the middle. He ushers me to sit opposite of him, but I stay standing.
“Oh, Felix, you,” he says. Then, he picks up the white cube, and rolls it across the wooden surface. It’s hollow tumbling, rings through my heart.
Please not one, I think*. Anything but one.*
The cube rolls to a stop, and a singular black dot faces up to the spinning ceiling fan. The masked man looks down, comically exaggerated at the die, and places both of his hands at the side of his face in mock shock. Then he splays his fingers, and lowers one.
“Ten,” he says.
Immediately, I run out of the kitchen in the direction of the basement. I crash into the drywall, as I try to quickly wrap myself around the corners, too fast in such a small house.
“Nine.”
The basement is unfinished and loaded with boxes, most still full from the move. A single room with a closet. Cotton candy insulation lines every wall. I used to want to eat the glassy stuff as a kid.
“Eight.”
Barreling down the wooden steps, I almost trip over myself. The third step creaks under my weight and I think one day as I do this, it might snap and I’ll fall.
It is barely a whisper a whole floor removed, but I keep count in my own head. “Sev—“.
My lungs are hot and my mouth tastes metallic. If I coughed, a bit of blood might come out. As a child, I had run track and field, but now 30 years later my body is aching in protest as I try and move myself faster than a walking pace.
“Five.”
My heart is hammering against my rib cage, trying to desperately escape from this situation.
“Three.”
I nestle myself into a cardboard box, at the far corner of the basement, furthest from the stairs. My breathing is erratic, bordering on hyperventilation.
“One,” the silent voice in my head says.
There are no fast footsteps. No skittering spider legs as the man crawls through my house.
Just me in a dark box in my basement. The childish instinct to pray suddenly enters my mind, leftover from years of elementary catholic school, as it always did whenever anything bad happened.
I had twisted my ankle once, skateboarding, and as my mother nursed it with an ice pack I silently prayed. ”I’ll never skateboard again God. Please, just make the pain go away.”
As soon as I could put weight on it again, I was back surfing the board at the local park.
I go to begin a couple Hail Mary’s for old time’s sake. “Hail Mary, full of grac—.” A loud creak echoes through the basement. The third step from the bottom.
I shut a hand over my mouth, to quiet my breath. There will be no praying for help.
Inside my little box, I can hardly hear the man walking around. It is a casual pace, as if he has no worries in the world. Flippantly, I can hear him opening boxes, dutifully checking each and every one to make sure he is not missing anything. Minutes go by, maybe even an hour, until he finally arrives outside mine.
No no no no, I think. I should have picked a better spot, locked myself somewhere.
He raps his fingers on the loose lid of the box, and I don’t dare look up through the sliver that might show him. The crotch of my pajamas are warm.
Clara… I love you, I think.
The stranger moves deeper into the basement, checking the next box after me and seeing its empty, moves to the next.
Why did he pass me? To prolong the game? More minutes go by, and he finally clears the main section of the basement. Happy, he opens the small door to the closet-sized space that contains nothing but the boiler.
I quietly exit out of my box into the dark room and tiptoe to the stairs. An upstairs light is illuminating my freedom, and the thought goes through my mind that the stranger has been turning on all my lights. Whatever, get out. Find a different hiding spot, I think.
There is no sign that the stranger has noticed me. He hums to himself, as he checks behind the boiler making sure he has seen every hidey-hole.
I take my first step up the stairs, a second. I place my weight onto the third step and the wooden board cracks, sending my chin downward onto the wood. My jaw clamps down onto my tongue as it impacts with the stairs and I can taste blood from the back of my throat. I’m dazed for a moment. Teeth are cracked, and I glance forward. My severed tongue lays in front of my face.
“Oh, Felix.” the voice says, behind me.
I writhe on the concrete floor, trying to muster strength.
A gaping maw is where his face should be as he enters the light from the steps.