Three Knocks

CW-phobias to be triggered include-Claustrophobia, Thalassophobia, Pyrophobia, Kalampokiphobia, Apotemnophobia. Enjoy…

Three knocks come to the door-all in a row-with a gentle, but adamant rhythm. Open your eyes, I think to myself. And I think they open? I am stumbling from my bedroom down the stairs-not even noticing that my husband isn’t by my side.

What time is it?

I can’t have slept that much. Last night was long. Yesterday was longer. I had willed myself to bed by 10pm with the images of rejection letters dancing in my head-How am I so exhausted?

The stairs elongate in front of me and I finally put it together while looking for my own front door. I am in a dream. Three more knocks shift to slapping the door. The panic is setting in. It’s Candace. She’s already here to pick me up for the gym? It’s too early.

All four of my limbs weigh fifty pounds each as I will myself down the steps, towards my door. The house is pitch black all around me. Not even a single light casts hope through our living room bay window. As I find myself at the door, searching for Candace, I vaguely hear the doorbell. It plays a soft song, unknown to my own memory. I peer through the cut out window of our front door and I am greeted not by Candace’s shining green eyes, but by my husband’s deep brown ones. They’re glassy and red, like the day we put Dasher to sleep. My eyebrow crinkles in concern, but as I peer in closer, I am transported.

This is not my house. This is not my living room. All around me is glass. I run to the wall closest to me, suddenly able to in this horrible nightmare. I am searching for my beloved. I should be able to see him, standing on the porch. I breathe horrible circles of hot breath on the glass and stare out at a dark forest. It’s from Hollywood. It’s not real. 

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

“Hello, hello my lovelies!” greets Sally Sampson. There’s no way that’s her real name, just a gimmick made up for her viewers. But my publisher told me to tune into it, so I do. The camera pans over to Sally on her couch, clutching a cup of coffee. Beside her is a poster board blow up of my very, first, book cover. It’s nearly all deep, pitch black. Except, for the sliver of the house in the background and the shadows of the looming forest in the foreground. It’s breathtaking. I insisted that we choose that cover when Allie pitched the ideas from the art department. And there is my name-how thrilling-in deep red text: D.D. FOSTER. Allie had insisted we go with DD, rather than Darlene Decampos, and we tossed my maiden name in just for giggles, so that the stereotype of women being unable to write horror could be tossed to the side. I remember thinking, I didn’t even know that was a stereotype.

The camera zooms in on Sally’s luscious, glossy red lips as she proclaims she is obsessed with my book. Beside me, Alex scoffs. He runs a hand through his hair before using it to grab mine beneath the blankets. Sally gives a generalized summary of my blood, sweat, and tears, “A new thriller with a nightmarish twist. Can you imagine realizing that the love of your life is trapped outside as a demonic forest looms towards you and your home? God, sends shivers down your spine, don’t it?” She does a dramatic shiver and a fake southern accent. I had told Allie I had no business setting it in the south, since I myself had never set foot below the Mississippi before, but she said that Colorado forests just weren’t that scary. Too much evergreen. Too Christmasy.

Alex shifts his weight on the couch, bobs his knee impatiently. “They’ll wrap up soon,” I promise him as Sally tells her viewers that a major streaming platform will be airing their film version of my book in the next month. The celebrity cast as me sachets onto the stage to the adoring fans delight. They scream her name and applaud loudly. Alex rolls his eyes. He gets up from the couch when he sees me beaming.

“Hey,” I shout at him, “This thing took, like, five years! Aren’t I allowed to bask in the glory a bit?” I slump back into the couch, feeling like a deflated balloon. Sally yammers on about the premier and asks the actress if there were any real sparks between her and her co-star. I remain annoyed that they played up the romance scenes I had crafted into something that could never be categorized as inappropriate. I had worked so hard to be tasteful.

I don’t even look up when Alex sits. His glass of water forms a ring on my coffee table. He turns to face me, “You can be excited. You deserve it. I just don’t want you losing yourself.” I turn up the volume on the TV in reply. You weren’t writing until 2AM to finish crafting the perfect scene. You didn’t print out all of the publishers’ rejection letters so you could tape them on the walls of your office to convince yourself to edit just one more time. Can you believe they aren’t real letter anymore, Alex? What had the world come to? The nightmare that is now a day dream doesn’t belong to you. A real shiver darts down my spine and I settle into his chest as he turns the channel to a football game.

The beach is so warm. I sigh into my towel, listening to the sound of waves as they crash. Open your eyes, I think to myself and then stare up at the sun. It’s less bright than it used to be. I am dreaming. But this one is sweet, pleasant. I long to hold onto it. There are no gulls calling, no children running and screaming, no problems.

Beside me is my husband, who deserves this vacation as much as I do. He didn’t want to go on the book tour, but the way Alex’s character blew up in the film, he found himself urged by my editor, publisher, publicist…me. When I turn to look for Alex I find myself alone on the beach. I will myself to sit up, cup a sunshade over my eyes using my hand. Before me, the deep blue sea. I open my nostrils, longing to breathe in the scent of salt water, but find myself unable to. Probably, because I have never been to the sea. It’s just a concept, to me. 

I lean back on my palms, pull my legs to my chest, and find myself with no voice, like that one mermaid, as I call out Alex’s name. My mouth opens, my tongue drops to the bottom of my throat as I scream. Not a sound can be heard over the gentle waves. I feel hot tears run down my cheeks and I decide to stand. My legs won’t push up, won’t move. Get up! Get up! I need Alex. 

Out of guttural instinct, I find his name running to the front of my mouth to no avail. I am wailing now, wailing silently on the beach without my love. I push my weight into my hands, hoping and praying that I can stand. And I can! Suddenly, I am standing. I am relieved. My eyes take in the beach, finding it completely clear. No Alex. I start to scream for him, make a megaphone out of my hands so he can hear me. Defeated, they flop to my sides when he doesn’t appear. 

I need to move. Alex has to be here. He used to be. Didn’t he? My toes scrunch on my bright blue towel with red crabs on the border. That’s when it starts. As I un scrunch my toes, they fall off. I scream. When I try to bend to pick up my precious piggies, I find that my body is frozen like a statue again. Out of panic, I stare out at the ocean and scream my husband’s name. I tell myself it’s time to walk away, a person can survive without toes. Why aren’t I bleeding? Isn’t it human to bleed? Shouldn’t this hurt? As my feet begin to move, I begin to fall. I lose my calves, then my thighs break off at my hips. I am left as half a human, wailing at the sea. 

My hand reaches out, as if looking for Alex. His name is lodged in the back of my throat. My fingers fall to the sand like their toe counterparts. Cowards, you couldn't even manage to stick around. Where’s my wedding ring? Oh, Alex will be so mad if I lost my wedding ring on vacation. Thoughts scatter in the sand as my hands break off at the wrist. I lose my forearm moments later, followed by my shoulder. When I turn my gaze to my right side and find my other arm is victim to the sand only seconds later. Oh, Alex. 

My mid section folds in half and I am left face down, the memory of the grit of sand manages to weave into my mind. I am spitting and spitting and spitting. And gagging. And gagging and gagging. The waves creep up. I can feel their spray on the back of my warm neck, on my scalp. 

The first one creeps up and crashes. 

Then, the next.

And the next.

Until I can’t breathe. Until I am left in my sepulcher by the sea. 

It’s my fault. The realization is another wave crashing into me. But this one hurts more somehow. This isn’t the ocean. These are my tears. Because Alex has left me.

Alex didn’t leave me. Not really. He wakes me up a few minutes later, me in the dead of night and I am lulled back to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat which only sings for me. It’s a relief and I am back to work on the sequel inspired by my most recent terror. The first four chapters are sent to Allie before breakfast is served. She writes back one word: brilliant.

Over coffee a few months later, Alex tells me I’m looking tired. “That’s a stupid thing to say to your wife,” I reply with a smile. We are sitting at a local diner and our breakfast is yet to be served, but around us the place bustles with life so we accept it’ll be a while. 

“It’s the truth,” protests Alex. “Honey,” he leans across the table to take my hand, “You haven’t slept properly since your first book was published.”

“Life just looks different now,” I say to him. 

“Is it worth it?” he asks. 

I nod and sip my coffee. 

I am back in the wretched glass house. I am insufferably hot and I can’t really see. Where are my glasses? I am searching the headboard because it has those little shelves that Alex loves to put stuff on. I find empty water bottles, endless empty water bottles, and a couple old mugs, but no glasses. I need to go downstairs. 

I am downstairs. This is the only cool thing about a dream; you can just teleport. The thought makes me smile and I press my body to the cool glass of this random living room that doesn’t belong to me. Hot breath billows before me like a dragon. I smell the scent of smoke first. I whip around and find myself in some kind of horrible maze. Walls of terrible white surround me. My walls have never been this white. There’s a moment of pride in my dream self when I hear a soft crackling behind me. The fire is chasing me! I dart in, abandoning my glass window with the ominous forest.

The first dead end forces a left hand turn as I feel the heat grow closer and closer. Don’t look back. Whatever you do, don’t look back.

A right hand turn is my only option at the next dead end, but I can pick left or right at the third. I pick left since I am left handed. My second smile of the dream creeps its way in. This corridor is long. I run and don’t find myself out of breath. Looks like that gym time is paying off. A third smile. 

The sound of crackling frightens me, though and when I look to find safety in the white walls, I realize they are growing darker and darker with each step. I can’t turn back. The fire will kill me. I will myself to stop. I am standing in front of a door. It’s white. I stare it down, knowing it’s my final quest. The door handle is silver; it belongs to me. It’s hot to the touch and I wince, but feel the heart of the fire behind me. This or certain death. 

I manage to open the door and step into a white room. The door softly shuts behind me. When I realize I am out of options, I turn back as quickly as I can. But the door handle is back to being on fire and I can feel the cracking of the fire on the other side. It whispers a promise of the end. I pace the room in circles. Look up. I find no secret hatch, no window. 

Wake up

Wake up

Wake up

It’s just a dream. It’ll be a great book. What a way to end the trilogy. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!

I slump against the wall facing the door, feel the way the heat seems to suck the air out of my lungs, and resign myself to my fate—Alex’s question ringing in my ears, “Was it all worth it?”

Breaking news: Famous Author DD Foster Collapses at Book Signing: She has been rushed to St. Michael’s, her husband of twenty five years at her side. We now go to a live coverage of Sally Sampson…

“Oh my Loooorddd! It is just awful! No one is telling us anything,” she says while placing a manicured hand over her chest. “Oh! Oh gosh! Wait…it looks like Alex is stepping onto the hospital steps. This may be an update!”

Alex clears his throat. The microphone peals with feedback and the reporters' cameras click with each photo. “Uh…thank you to everyone who has come…uh…the doctors are unsure of what happened to Darlene…er…DD…but, they have placed her in a medical coma,” his voice breaks and he shies from the camera. A woman with red hair in a messy bun steps up and introduces herself as Allie. She explains that the doctors hope DD will recover after some much needed rest. 

“They’re saying her brain was just overloaded with it all,” Allie adds and waves a hand at the cameras, threatening to blame the media who don’t shrink back. “We will release another statement with more information just as soon as possible,” she promises and steps away from the mic, as the hoard of reporters move in on her demanding more information. Allie takes Alex’s hand and hospital security pushes the crowd back.

Sally turns back to her cameraman, presses her glossed lips together and asks, “Well, did you get all that? What a terrible turn of events. Guess we’ll never get to read that final book.” She bursts out laughing and signs off saying, “Back to you in the studio, Eric!”