DEADBOLT

Raindrops dripped down the window, leaving little footprints behind as they raced to the bottom. I picked out my favorite and watched it with interest, hoping it would reach the finish line before its competitors. Gravity pulled it along, and it travelled only a few inches before stopping to catch its breath. The others passed it quickly, and after a few moments of silently willing it to continue on its path, I lost interest.

My eyes blurred as I shifted my attention from the raindrops to the streetlights below. From my second-story window, I could see the curly details of the lampposts, and I traced them slowly with my eyes.

The street below was smooth, completely void of any holes or dips. It looked freshly paved, but its condition was much more easily attributed to a lack of traffic than to proper maintenance. My mother said that this was a blessing—no cars, no noise. The house we had lived in previously was near a popular highway, filling the air with the smell of gasoline and the sound of civilization. I had never taken notice of it before, and my mother had never complained of it, but after we saw this new house with its barren road and bright blue skies, it was all she could talk about. Suddenly our old cozy home was too small, too loud, too dirty. Within an instant, this new place far off from everything—the cars, the city, the people, my father—was the best place in all the world.

Dakota, did I tell you that the new house has wood floors the way you like? The new house has high ceilings and natural lighting, isn’t it just so relaxing? All this distraction won’t be a problem at the new house, huh, Dax? It had started to take on capital letters when I thought of it, and I began to see the name hanging over her head when she spoke it, a proper noun, serifs and all. The New House will be much better for you to focus, I think. There are no tiles in The New House, isn’t that good news? I’m sure you’ll love The New House once you get settled in. It was also quite clear that The New House wasn’t under review anymore. She no longer sold the house to me when she spoke. She placed me in it. She never needed to tell me we’d be moving, just as she never needed to tell me that my father would be staying behind.

Yes, The New House was quiet, but so was I, so the air had a distinct stillness to it that told me to walk more slowly and step more carefully. The slightest sound felt out of place on this street where the wind blew like a whisper and the road was less travelled by. Despite the lack of tiles and the undeniable cleanliness, I found myself more anxious in this house than I’d been in a long while. I traced the large decorative curve of the lamppost with my eyes once. Blink. Back down the other way. Blink. Back up. Blink. Down. Blink. With the last blink, I wiped away the mental image of the lamppost’s bulb burning out—a small concern, but a concern nonetheless.

If I had to describe my way of thinking in a single word, it would probably be that one: concern. I was always concerned about some thing or another, and whether that concern was rational was of no relevance to me. In our old house, I knew what concerns were going to plague me at what times, so I was able to set a routine for dealing with them. In The New House, everything was concerning in an unpredictable way, so the concerns landed in my mind like raindrops on a window, and I had to make a blind guess at which concern was going to surpass all the rest. Once the lamppost’s bulb was secured—mentally, at least—I turned my attention to my bedroom light; it was still on, and I knew turning it off would be a lengthy process.

I walked slowly, light-footedly toward my light switch, my left index finger absently rubbing against my left thumb. I brought my hand up to the switch, and the lights went out with a small, metallic click. Nope. I ran my index finger along the top of the switch before turning the light back on. The pad of my thumb rubbed circles into the first crease of my index finger. Click. Nope. A light, consistent rub along the light switch, wiping the slate clean. Click. Rubbing my fingers together to clear them of their newfound wrongness. Click. Nope. Wiping the switch. Click. Rubbing my fingers together. Click. Nope. Wiping. Click. Rubbing. Click. Nope. Wiping. Click. Rubbing.

Click.

Nope.

Click.

Click.

Nope.

Click.

Click.

I rubbed my fingers together, concentrating on them intently. They were no longer wrong. With the light finally, properly off, I could focus on my next concern: the rest of the house. I gripped the brass doorknob that decorated my new bedroom door, wrapped my fingers around it precisely, and turned it to the left. I pulled the door open slowly, thankful that there was no creak to disrupt the silence. Stepping out into the hall, I pulled the door shut behind me. I twisted the doorknob twice to the left.

The one thing about The New House that I was pleased with was the striking lack of doors leading outside. In our previous house (I noticed briefly how this one had not taken on proper noun status, instead remaining a vague reference) there had been four doors leading outside: the front door, the side door, and two back doors. The New House only had a front door and a back door, which made for a slightly quicker nightly routine. I pictured the front door in my mind and headed toward the stairs, spurred on by the idea that it could easily have been left unlocked. We had only been in this house for about three days, so what was the likelihood that I’d already formed a habit of locking the front door behind me? I’d personally say the odds were quite slim. I went down the stairs, then back up, three times, each time a bit quicker than the last. The process of going down the stairs was not nearly as precise as my other methods, but it was equally time consuming. My mother always smiled as she saw me do this, making a light-hearted joke about getting some exercise. She had always preferred looking at things in a positive light, so she saw nothing about my condition too detrimental. This insistence upon justifying my behaviors instead of getting me medication and therapy like my father wanted had probably been a factor in our sudden change in housing.

Once I’d reached the bottom of the staircase for the third time, I went to the front door, already reaching for the lock. My hand faltered a bit at the sight of the deadbolt lying horizontally on its axis. Already locked. Of course it was already locked. Still, I touched the deadbolt, rubbing my thumb over its smooth front. It wouldn’t hurt to lock it again, just to check, right? My thumb ran over it slowly. Maybe it hadn’t been locked properly. This thought gave me all the justification I needed to grip the deadbolt and turn it to the right, unlocking the door again. Two separate clicks broke the fragile silence of The New House: one of the metal oval shifting against the metal plate behind it, and one of the tumblers inside the door activating and turning. The second click was actually a bit closer to a thud, and I held my breath for a moment to see if something would happen, if the silence was somehow holding up something of vital importance. Nothing changed, and I let out a steady exhale at how lucky I’d gotten. Click-THUD. The door was locked again.

I looked at deadbolt for a moment, rubbing my left index finger against my left thumb and rubbing my right thumb against the metal oval, now in its horizontal position. I gripped the oval tightly, resisted, resisted…

Click-THUD.

Unlocked again. It just didn’t feel quite right to me yet. Click-THUD. This was the only one of my habits that my mother didn’t approve of; she complained that after I while, I loosened the deadbolt, and I’d eventually break it. Click-THUD. Because I knew she didn’t like it, I tried to will away this particular concern without the repetition. Click-THUD. I did try, yes. Click-THUD. Maybe with the medication my father had wanted me to take—Click-THUD—it wouldn’t have been so difficult for me to resist. Click-THUD. Click-Click.

I stared at the deadbolt, eyebrows furrowed. Click-Click. Click-Click. The oval itself was moving, still clicking against its backplate. The lock however—Click-Click—was stuck in the unlocked position.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Suddenly the raindrop concerns on my mental window were all wiped away, replaced with only one ocean-sized concern. The door was unlocked. The door could not be locked. Within an instant, this new place far off from everything—the cars, the city, the police, the hospital—was the most dangerous place in all the world. My mind went back to the lamppost curves I’d been tracing with my eyes. My eyes widened as I remembered what the view had looked like outside of the window; there were raindrops on the streetlights, puddles forming next to the perfectly even street. There were trees on the other side of the road, rustling with the light wind, rustling with the pressure of the soft rain, rustling from the movement from within them. There was a hand gripping a low-hanging branch, perhaps regaining balance after a slight stumble. There was a tall man, hunched over and hiding, within those trees. There had definitely been someone there, I know it. There must have been, because I remember looking down at him for just a moment and gaining a new concern. I had been concerned that he’d catch a cold, concerned that he was lost. Now I was concerned that he had come from an old house and was looking for a new house, occupied or not.

I looked again at the deadbolt, still in its vertical position. Click-Click. Horizontal now, where it should have been locked. Horizontal, but unlocked. I rubbed my shaking hands together, anxiety gripping me like a vice. No cars had been by since I was upstairs. He could still be out in the trees, watching, waiting. I stared again at the deadbolt, noting its false affirmation: locked. Safe. My fingers itched to check, to open the door and turn the lock and see, find out for absolutely certain, if the deadbolt extended.

With my hands shaking and mind racing, I gripped the metal oval. Click-Click. Unlocked. I wrapped my trembling fingers around the doorknob. Wave after wave of ice cold terror washed over me. My knees shook, threatening to give out beneath me. Holding my breath, I turned the doorknob slowly to the left. I pulled the door in just enough to see the deadbolt inside, the edge flush against the end of the door. Trembling fingers gripping the lock.

Click-THUD.

The deadbolt extended, jutting out from the wood of the door. I exhaled all at once, the ocean of concern evaporating into a tiny drop. Heat returned to my body, and my rapidly beating heart pumped it through my veins, giving back the strength in my knees. The deadbolt worked after all. My mother had always said I had a vivid imagination. She said that all my fears were just in my head, and that I had no reason to be worried. Maybe she was right this time. My left hand, now steady, gripped the metal oval, turning it to the right.

Click-Click.

My heart was replaced with a bag of frozen peas, and with its next beat, ice coursed through me, chilling me until I was perfectly still. This time, I could see it with my own eyes. The tumblers did not activate. The deadbolt did not retract. This time, I knew my concerns were justified. The lock was broken. This time, however.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

The deadbolt was stuck in the ‘locked’ position. The door was open.

It could not be shut.

I felt dangerously close to fainting at this realization, and for a moment I couldn’t properly react. I stared, eyes wide and dead, at the lock, unseeing. Fuzzy. Greying out, stalling. I heard the rustling of leaves beyond the untouched street. If I opened the door, I knew what I would see.

The tall man, hunched over and hiding, would extend to his full height. He’d be disheveled, he’d walk tiredly, perhaps with a limp. The man would walk carelessly across the street, each step faltering his posture slightly. The walk would be taunting, mocking. Lock me out, I dare you, that walk would say. I knew he was there, standing, waiting, in the middle of the street, ready to do whatever was necessary to finally get a full night’s sleep on a comfortable bed. I heard the front porch steps creak beneath heavy feet.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

He walked with increasing fervor, battered, torn boots disrupting the silence of the night.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

He was on the porch now, and at this distance I’d be able to see how tired he was. He’d be delirious from lack of sleep, stumbling, grabbing at the air. He’d be missing patches of skin on his face and neck from where he’d torn at it, desperately reaching for anything that would bring him the relief of unconsciousness. His eyes would be bloodshot, outlined in deep purple.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

I could hear him grumbling, probably amused at how lucky he’d gotten. He could see now, standing two steps from the welcome mat, that the door was not flush with the doorframe. He could see that some careless fool had forgotten to lock the door, forgotten to close the door, forgotten to check it once and twice and thrice and four times over. I knew his rotting mouth was turning up into a foul grin at my failure.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

There was a soft drag from outside; it was the sound of an unseen welcome mat being impolitely shoved by ripped boots, no, boots full of blackened holes, no, bare feet full of cuts and bites and scrapes.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

He could hear the clicking, could hear my desperate attempts to shut the door, shut him out. The corner of the welcome mat that he had flipped up flopped back onto the wood of the porch with a light smack. He was right outside now, one push away from entering The New House.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

I felt slight pressure against the door. The word “no” entered the air, presumably from my lips, and floated aimlessly. I felt far away, and I could barely make out my own thoughts over the steady pounding of my heart. The clicks were now tiny blips on my radar. All I could focus on was the man’s face, practically melting, beyond the open door. I leaned all my weight against it as I turned the lock

Click-Click.

hoping

Click-Click.

begging

Click-Click.

listening

Click-Click.

for a

Click-THUD.

The air rushed out of my lungs as the door slammed shut, no longer impeded by the broken deadbolt. The world was sucked into a void of black for an instant before I realized what had happened. The door was shut.

Click-THUD.

The door was locked. For the first time in years, I was completely certain of this. The door was locked. I leaned against it shakily, trying to focus on any sound other than my slow, deep breaths or the insistent thudding of my heart against my ribcage. My ear pressed against the door, shut, locked. The silent stillness of The New House was unbroken. No scraping, no grumbling, no footsteps.

Slowly, I backed away from the door and creeped toward the window. It was a tall, nearly floor-to-ceiling window that my mother was completely infatuated with. The curtains covering it were thick, textured like old, dusty velvet. They were a quite honestly sickening shade of magenta, contrasting starkly with the cool mint walls.

I gripped the fabric, ignoring how the aged feel of them seemed to seep into my fingertips. My chest tightened as the bulky sound of the curtains moving disrupted the silence of the night. I made only a small gap through which to confirm my suspicions and peeked out hesitantly at the curved streetlights, the perfectly paved road, the lightly dewy trees, the creaky porch. I scanned the area, breath evening out as I saw nothing out of place. The welcome mat was still exactly where it should have been, and the porch was dry under its awning—no footprints in sight.

I let the curtain fall back into place, finally breathing properly again. My mental window of concerns held only a single drop; my mother was going to be annoyed that I broke the deadbolt again. My mother had always said I had a vivid imagination. She said that all my fears were just in my head, and that I had no reason to be worried. Maybe she was right this time. Maybe the doors locked just fine without my checking, and maybe I could simply let them be without bringing about the end of all ages. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Even so, on my way back to the stairs, I made a quick detour to the back door. It couldn’t hurt to check just this once, I rationalized.

Click-THUD.

Click-THUD.

Click-THUD.

Click-THUD.

Click-Click.