FRIDAY: The Man at the Door

Halloween Week 2023

Runner Up

BY RACHEL RACETTE

Copyright is held by the author.

THE MAN in the doorway is silent. Hunched and backlit by the violently bright light outside, he is a black silhouette, coloured only by the flare of his glasses and the blood coating his sharp fingers, dripping onto the floorboards.

You’re not afraid. How could you be? You had known he was coming. You knew from the moment you woke up. Though it’s not until he at last stood in your doorway, that the someone was him. Just as you knew there would be warm crimson splattered across his clothes, his skin. You had known, the thought heavy and lingering in the back of your head, and yet, you still find yourself surprised.

You sit in the dark, silent, watching. Neither of you moves, save for the involuntary rise, and fall of your own chest. You breathe, he does not.

There are red droplets on his shined shoes. The blood makes a wet plink noise as it lands, heard just above the drip of the faucet in the other room. You can’t see his eyes; they’re hidden behind the bright white lenses of his glasses. Reflected by a light source that doesn’t make sense. There’s no light on your side of the door, and the wild curled tuffs of his dark hair should block the light in the hall behind him.

You can’t see the skin of his hands beneath all that red, and strangely, you’re not afraid. Why aren’t you afraid? Shouldn’t you be, seeing him in such a state? Regardless of the fact that you had been expecting him? Even the understanding of his sudden arrival, this stranger you don’t actually know, should frighten you. Yet, there’s no fear, not for him.

Had you known what he would look like when you opened the door before you opened it? You must have, you weren’t surprised after all. You must have known, what other reason do you have for your lack of fear at the sight of all that blood?

Why aren’t you afraid? You don’t know. You can’t find it in you to care. What matters is that he’s here, with you. Alone. The Man huffs and smiles, flashing pearly teeth. He stands tall, sharp fingers twitching at his sides, flicking more blood onto the hardwood. He says nothing, he does not move. It occurs to you then, that he’s waiting to be invited inside.

You open your mouth, then shut it with a quick clack of your teeth. Do you want to invite him in? You don’t have too, you can just sit in your chair, watching him until . . .

Until what? You don’t know. You’re supposed to let him in. You’re still not afraid, but a small inkling of something similar begins to build in your hollow chest. You suddenly do not want to invite him in. Will he still cross the threshold if you say nothing? Is he keeping his feet planted because he must be invited in, or is it out of some twisted politeness? He won’t come in, but he’ll lurk in your doorway, splattering blood all over your floor.

You blink. The feeling builds, a small ember of apprehension. What is he here for? You knew that he was coming for you, could picture in your mind this exact scene from the moment you opened your eyes this morning, but, but had you really? You don’t know who he is, so why are you so sure?

Were you sure? Did you really know what was coming before he arrived? You don’t know this man, and yet, familiarity tickles at the back of your mind. Like a distant memory from childhood, flickering and hazy.

The clock ticks behind you like a requiem bell. You don’t turn to look to check the time, you don’t know what the Man will do if you look away. Your anxious ember grows into a small flame. You don’t want to know what happens, but you feel like you do. Like you should. Knowledge burns against your temple. You know, and yet the words don’t come. You can’t describe this feeling; you can’t understand your conflicting thoughts.

The Man sighs, head titling to the side, dark curls bouncing with the motion. His smile widens. He knows you know. You wonder if he will come inside now. You wonder if you would be able to outrun his reach. He chuckles, shaking his head. You have your answer.

You are afraid now. Trembling, heart pounding, but you refuse to look away, to even blink. Your eyes begin to burn, but you can’t look away. You can’t.

The Man straightens his head with a snap that makes you jerk in your seat, though the rest of him remains hunched. He’s too tall for your doorway to stand at his full height. Crash. You jump to your feet, spinning to see what had caused the noise.

There’s someone in your kitchen. It’s not the Man. There’s another figure standing in your apartment, one you did not expect. He stands, a heavy towering frame, and then he looks at you. A snarl falls from his lips, and you catch the glint of a knife before you’re distracted by the creak of your floor. You spin back to the doorway; the Man has moved, you blink.

The Man is gone, and the light outside is no longer unnaturally bright. The hall light is once again that dull familiar off-yellow. You gasp, spinning back to the kitchen, your feet moving before your mind catches up. But when it does, you find yourself freezing in the kitchen doorway. The Man is hunched over, hovering above the intruder, who gurgles, twitching weakly against the linoleum. The moonlight streaming in from the broken window gives you just enough to see the red spreading across your floor, dripping anew from the Mans sharp fingers.

You are afraid, but you know better than to speak, to move, lest you bring his attention to yourself. The Man leans down, grabs the intruder by their neck, and hauls him to eye-level. You can’t look away, even after the first crunch of bone reaches your ears. You fix your gaze to the Man’s back; that expanse of black and watch the way the muscle underneath flexes as the Man shifts his cargo.

Far too soon and not soon enough, it’s over. There’s only you, the Man, and a puddle of blood spreading across your once clean floor. He turns, and your gaze is unwillingly drawn to his face. He’s pale, beneath the splatter of blood. Smooth porcelain skin and sharp features. You still can’t see his eyes. You hope you never will. He smiles at you, teeth an untarnished pearly white. He raises one bloodied hand, and mimes tipping an imaginary hat. Your eyes unwillingly water. You blink, and he’s gone.

The door to your apartment shuts with a gentle click. You stare at the sparkling glass on your floor, at the knife resting innocently between. You stare at the puddle of drying blood. The fear you had felt earlier has left you, replaced by a numb hollowness, and the strange sting of relief.

The Man is gone, and you know, like his forewarned arrival, that he will not come back for you. You know now that you had not been his prey. You walk away from the murder-scene in your kitchen, take a shower, and go to bed.

You don’t know what else to do.

***

Rachel Racette was born in 1999, in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. She’s interested in creating her own world and characters and loves writing science fiction and fantasy. She has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. She lives with her supportive family and cat, Cheshire and vicariously in fantasy settings of her own making. She’s published in Poet’s Choice – Free Spirit, Arthropod literary journal Issue 1, Underwood Press, Coffin Bell. Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com X (formerly Twitter): Rachel S Racette – Author