20 Jan Signs of Solipsism

I inherited this house only three months ago and it haunts me. I’ve walked its slim hallways and dark rooms, checking again and again if the doors are locked, the windows closed tightly, and the drapes drawn. No light and no peering eye may pierce my Mecca. And yet, though I’ve learned to sleep in the day and patrol this sepulchre by night, there are still those three that emerge from the darkness.

My doppelganger stands in the mirror. He copies my expression, my gestures, my clothing. I hate him. His mirror world is a reflection of mine, but he hasn’t noticed the sudden misarrangement of his house. Have you ever stared at yourself in the mirror for so long that you no longer understand what you look like? I have. I do it all the time. Maybe, I’m looking for the face of someone I miss so much that it aches. There is some force that compels me to stand in front of the mirror in the middle of the night when I should be checking the doors.

God, the doors! Are they locked?

* * * * * *

There is a young girl at the foot of my bed tonight. She peers over the edge, I can only see her sunken yellow eyes and thinning hair. Her face is a pallid blue, like moonlight on a frozen creek. She doesn’t stir when I snap awake, only stares at me with hollow eyes. She doesn’t blink when I blink. We are at a stalemate, and I wonder if I had overslept. The blinds are closed tightly, so I cannot see how dark it is outside. What of the doors? Did I forget to keep them locked before slinking off to bed? Or did she force her way in through the cracks in the walls? I cannot avert my eyes, because I am afraid she will pounce at the slightest movement. Every second that ticks by is another wasted opportunity to check the doors and windows. What else could be lurking around my house? My house! She is an intruder in my holy land. She is a barrier from my nightly ritual, and I cannot overcome this obstacle alone, but I am too afraid to take action. Too afraid of the consequences for my idleness, so I beg one of us to move, make the first move.

Move, move, move.

Move!

And my arms think for themselves when they tug the blankets over my head. I wait for her to strike, but there is nothing. Minutes pass and a new fear begins to settle. What if I take off the covers and find her face inches from mine? I would scream, surely, and that would break the vow of silence that I am bound to. Then a worse alternative burrows into my flaring head: what if she has left the room to go hide somewhere else? It is a game to her, one that will not end until she is satisfied with her hunt. No, she is too cunning for that. She has gone downstairs and unlocked every door. She is letting unseen monstrosities into my home. Unclean and filthy things are spilling inside and I must act before it is too late, but I do not have the courage to stand or move or breathe or look outside to see the black parade as it marches down my street corner. So I lay there until the urge to open my eyes and lift the covers takes hold, and I obey its tender command. I uncurl myself and find…

Nothing.

She is gone. My bedroom door is closed and latched. Was it like that when the girl first appeared, or in my mind’s eye where memory is as malleable as water did I see that the door was cracked open?

I lay there for a long time, stricken with terror. My ritual has been interrupted. I will certainly pay for my cowardice.

* * * * * *

I saw the grinning man again. It’s been days since the girl haunted me, and the tall thin fellow in my nightmares has made another appearance. He stood down the street, where the cul de sac ends abruptly at a worn, rusted gate. I saw him as I made my nightly rounds, feeling the forgiveness of my house bless me with a few quieter days. I lifted the blinds to check and see how far night had progressed, when the silhouette of an all-too familiar figure caught my gaze. He was dressed in dark pants and a black trenchcoat. His long tipped cap hung low on his face, but not low enough to hide his wide, inhuman smile. The streetlamp sprinkled a warm orange glow on the far sidewalk, but the man was cautious and he stood just outside of its touch. He held a briefcase in his hand. Water leaked from the bottom, dripping onto thirsty ground.

This was not the first time we’ve met. I’ve seen his smile in my dreams. I was outside and his face was plastered on the trees in the forest. The gate was in sight, and my home lay near the corner a few houses down. But I could never get to it. The more I ran the farther it escaped my reach, and I could see in the window, the one connected to my bedroom, the grinning man smiling and waving a rotted hand.

Now he stood at the end of my street, near the gate that was once my salvation. The foggy edges of dream did not invade my vision, so I knew this was real. His body faced mine, not just the direction of my house, but the window I looked out from. I let the blinds fall and ran to check the front door. I accidentally kicked over the mail pile and nearly swore out loud. I’ll have to straighten that out later. The front door was locked. I twisted the tumbler to see how easy it was to move and it turned as nicely as leaves in the wind. That was not a good sign. Anyone could get in at this rate. I made a mental note to replace it in the morning and I returned to the window. The grinning man was gone. His briefcase lay in the middle of the street. An obvious trap, laid out by a foolish ghost who didn’t know enough about his prey. I let the blinds fall again, knowing that the grinning man would return another day.

* * * * * *

How many hairs do I have on my head? Let me lean into the mirror and count. There were more yesterday, I was almost certain. Have those bags under my eyes been there for long? I’ve lost sleep, surely, but a guardian can’t complain when his calling demands he be vigilant at all times. Is the man in the mirror a guardian as well? What does he protect? And why, when I lift my hand to the mirror, does he lift his and block me from entering? Is he protecting me from his world, or forbidding me from entering?

How many times have I seen myself in this mirror? Is it bad that the answer used to be rarely? I was never a fan of mirrors, because my mother once said that breaking one would cause seven years of bad luck. What else did she say to me back then? Her face and voice are like torn paper now. What was the last thing she said to me as I slammed the door? She said, “You can’t hide away forever.”

Shouldn’t we all be afraid of mirrors? How many times, in a fit of dissociation, did I notice something behind me? Even now, I am too scared to turn around and check. I would rather not challenge the accuracy of my eyes, because what I see must be real, even if it is only real to me.

Maybe that is why my baseless courage melts away when I notice, just behind the person in the mirror, a pair of eyes peeking over my shoulder. I see the curve of a head and a scalp of thin hair. All in the shape of a human, but the size was too small, too unfinished. I thought at first that the thing was far behind me, out in the hallway just below my vision. Imagine the terror when I saw talon-like fingers creep up over the edge of my shoulder and grasp my shirt.

It was climbing on my back and I could not tear my precious eyes from its glassy gaze. It had a face so small and childish, yet so haggard and old. Its long neck stretched high above my clavicle with an elongated torso. How long can a torso be? Dear god, it won’t stop moving! And I can feel it press further into my flesh, a grip as unyielding as a barricaded door. What does it want from me?

What do you want from me?

* * * * * *

There is a young girl at the foot of my bed tonight. Haven’t I said those words before? I could see more of her face. Her nose was missing, leaving only the bony outcropping, fleeced with peeling skin. Her lips curled in a misshapen grimace, as if the odor in the room offended her. Maybe it does, I haven’t changed the sheets in a while.

Her red-tinged eyes are focused on mine. I was again stricken with that petrifying fear found in cornered rats who seek an improbable escape. I mark the way the skin on her face is tight, how it stretches over pointy cheekbones down to a soft jawline. A clump of matted hair has fallen in front of her left eye and sticks to it, but she does not seem to notice. Or care. I focus on the door behind her face, this time I will see if she had broken in or if she simply slipped underneath the frame. The door was indeed closed, the latch was fastened.

It’s not fair! I was late to my rounds and my Mecca is holding that against me. It is an unfair punishment. She had blocked my way!

Then a voice, as gentle as the dawn, tucked itself into my head. It purred as it softly whispered: Have you tried getting rid of her?

It was the house. My sanctuary had spoken to me, a voice like my grandmother when she held me in her arms and told me everything was going to turn out right. My house wanted to show forgiveness, but I have to be the one who makes the first move. This girl must be a test. Yes, that’s it. She was sent by my house to test me. Let’s start with something small. Make a simple motion, nothing too big or too fast to set her off. I slowly moved my head to the side, then felt my blood drain when her eyes followed.

The human eye is not an oiled machine. It has rusty cogs and odd quirks, so that when it moves it catches like a tumbler on a key. It’s supposed to stutter as it focuses from one spot to another. But when she moved her eyes to fixate back on mine, hers slid effortlessly like the eyes of a puppet, controlled by an unseen hand. And when her lips parted I heard a soggy wheeze come from the bowels of her forsaken lungs. No, god help me! She was trying to speak! I couldn’t bear it any longer. I retreated under the blankets, eyes shut tight, hands over ears. I’m sorry, my Mecca. I’ve failed you again. I’m not ready.

* * * * * *

I still can’t figure out the password to my father’s computer. He left it to me, along with many other possessions. Such confidence to trust nearly everything you’ve ever owned to a child who hasn’t even graduated from high school yet. Perhaps he had the foresight to give it to me, knowing that everything I’ve ever owned would become either lost or irreparable. But what kind of father gives his child a lock and hides the key? The same kind of father who would teach his son how to shave his stubbly face one day, then leave him the next. The razor blades my father used were fat and wide. He had lent me some on that day, and I had cut myself. It was shallow and I felt nothing. He wadded some toilet paper and stuck it to my jaw, where the blood soaked and spread like a watercolor painting. I can’t find those razors anymore, and my beard has grown uneven and patchy. It would take a long time for it to fully develop into the exquisite lumberjack style my father once wore with pride before streaks of gray sprouted along the tough brown tinge.

Before I started pretending to be an adult, I would play the game of adulthood with my dad. Years before handing me a real razor, he had spread foam on my young impish face and had given me a bar of soap to “shave” with. We played games like that all the time. My favorite used to be “I Spy”, where we would sit outside and he would study the backyard, the fence, the forest trees, the creek, and the clouds and then say, “I spy, with my little eye, something black.”

I peeked out the window to my backyard, and I spied with my little eye something black. I spied something black and tall with big white teeth.

The grinning man was back, hidden behind the bushes. If we were playing hide and seek, he would’ve been an easy but boring playmate. It’s like he plays the game to be found rather than win. The bushes stood flush against the red peeling fence. He couldn’t have gotten through the gate near the side of the house. I boarded that up long ago. He must’ve jumped the fence, and with his height, that should’ve been no problem.

His cap was hanging lower than before, enough to block his eyes and nose, but still not low enough to conceal that hideous smile. His teeth were perfectly white, lined up smartly like recruits at boot camp. There was not a hint of stubble along his face, adding to the overall pale complexion. His briefcase oozed that funny liquid, spreading out like a wrung towel.

This was another test. My sanctuary was being overrun by these spectres, and it expects me to respond in kind. I stand motionless, paralyzed with indecision. Why doesn’t he move? Is his purpose to serve as a distraction, so that my nightly ritual can be disrupted? For what reason? Why else but to prove that my role as a guardian is nothing more than a farce?

A faint light in the distance. An oncoming car sweeps the street beyond the fence, and its blazing beam careens around the curve to meet my ill prepared eyes. I am blinded for less than a moment, and when the pinpricks of stars leave me to return to the heavens, I see that the grinning man has vanished. The briefcase is nowhere to be found; he has taken it with him. That means he’s learning.

* * * * * *

The bathwater does not heat up as well as it used to. I used to only take showers, but now I can’t muster the patience to stand still for very long. So I started taking baths at night, but night is when I prowl through the house, upholding my contract. So, I’ve reserved my bath for the early morning, when rays of dawn dance from the east into the living room and land upon that big stain in the carpet that even the town’s best cleaners couldn’t wash out. That is the time when I am released from my servitude. But lately, only cold water splashes out from the faucet. It never heats up, no matter how long I wait. Could be something wrong with the water heater. I should call a repairman, but I can’t find my phone. I can’t find anything anymore, not my razors, my keys, my phone, my medication, not even the last picture I have of my family. Someone keeps hiding them.

That’s why I’ve come to the bathroom tonight. I should be checking the doors and windows, but this time I know they’re all closed and locked. If anything pale or slithery or smiley comes in, I’ll hear it. I’ve got a keen ear. But for now, I’ve come here for an experiment.

I run some water into the bathtub. It is frigid, colder than a witch’s crotch. So cold that it burns to keep my hand underneath. Then my fingers go numb, and I think the water has gotten warmer. I test it with my other hand. It has gotten warmer. Before long, I’ve got a tub full of nice hot water. Its steam is seductive and it beckons me to take a dip, clothes and all. It’s another test, it has to be. Why would I get warm water at night but cold in the day? Because, something wants to distract me from my post.

The mirror hangs nearby. From my skewed angle, I can see the towel hanger on the other side. The mirror stands between me and the door, but if I stay here, I should be safe from my reflection and whatever else is waiting on the other side.

Are you sure you feel safer? a voice asks from the in-between. Why do you assume that because you aren’t looking in the mirror right now that the creature with the long torso and spidery fingers isn’t still behind you?

I feel it now. A small itch behind my shoulder. No. It can’t be like this. It only exists in the mirror, it can’t still be with me! I can’t touch my shoulder. I can’t glance over, if I see something in my peripherals I may be frightened enough to flee from my sanctuary. Ignorance is bliss. Blindness is freedom. But it’s like refusing to look at tomorrow’s headlines because you’re afraid of how the journalists have spun your story. Because it’s easier if you didn’t know. It doesn’t change the fact that a tragedy had struck your hometown in the dead of night, does it? Doesn’t change the fact that the slippery creature is crawling up my back right now and its pincers have gotten ahold of my flesh. Did it have pincers, or was it all legs like a centipede? How big was its face? Did it have a face? I’m starting to forget what it looks like. Maybe I’ll go to the mirror and steal one quick look.

Yes, it does have a face. And what big eyes it has for such a shrunken little face. And what sharp and innumerable teeth it has, thin like IV needles. And when those teeth clack together, they remind me of bone grinding on broken cartilage.

I remember a rope swing. Why do I remember the rope swing? It was an artifact of times forgotten, strung up and tied by kids who were once like us: adventurous and just a little too bold. It swung in the breeze, connected to a low-hanging branch of a tall, stalky tree. And when you swung out with all your might, your feet dangled over the shallow creek that split the forest.

The face of the snake had the same color as that rope swing, a weathered brown with layers of blistered skin lying along its frayed edges. It had been worn, but it never snapped.

It crawls further up my back, its head inches away from my ear. What are those hints of black that ring around its stubby legs? Are those claws? And why is it opening its giant maw? Those teeth are pulling apart, being sucked back inside its hideous mouth like spikes on a pufferfish, and yet its maw gets bigger. What kind of sound is it making? Is it an infant’s cry, or a tortured scream?

But I can’t focus on the thing, because something behind it catches my eye. Out in the hallway, a large sturdy figure creeps lowly on the ground. A rolltop desk. Its panels are wooden, the color of frayed rope. Its drawers are missing, save for one. One drawer remains, fixed with an ornate steel knob.

The desk shouldn’t exist. It doesn’t belong in this house, or else I would’ve noticed it by now. It is another incontinuity between the real world and the mirror world. But the mirror world has been leaking into my world, as is evident by the shrieking snake clinging to my shoulder. Would the desk find its way to my world as well? If I turned around, would I find it staring at me from the dark hallway, or would it vanish from sight? Would I be sad or relieved if it wasn’t there? Why aren’t these things simple? Why do the easiest problems require the toughest efforts?

And why won’t that abomination stop screaming?

* * * * * *

I woke up an hour past dusk, dreaming of the rope swing. And when my eyes flicker open, there is a young girl at the end of my bed. I’ve been expecting her for several nights, but for a while she hadn’t shown her face in my room. Every time I wake up and the last sensations from those blankets of dreams slip away, I would always look to the corner of my bedroom, far away from where I expected the girl to appear. I wanted to steel myself for the flicker of pale blue I would eventually see in the corner of my eye, but I would not feel that jolting chill when I saw those emotionless eyes.

Yet, when I peeked through the crust around my eyes, I was immediately drawn to that pale blue face at the end of my bed.

I’ve had visions of ghosts after the incident, even when for a time I wasn’t living in this house. Visions of things down a long dark hallway. Visions of faces half-seen just before falling asleep. Visions of eyes staring through holes in the wall. But they were all figments of an imagination that enjoys torturing its host. This was no figment, no trick of the light, no puppet on strings. I could see her whole face. Those yellow eyes, thin hair, sloppy ears, bony nose and thin lips were regular visitors at this point. But tonight they brought along a friend, a small chin partially split down the middle. The scar tissue reminded me of a surgery long ago. It looked fresh, as white as a babbling creek underneath a forest canopy.

The creek. The rope swing. The dream came pouncing back on feet like sprinting tigers. I was on the rope swing, standing on the precipice. The tiny rolling hill from the tree down to the creek was no more than a ten foot drop, but it looked like the white cliffs of Dover. I pushed out and balanced on the small plank of wood tied to the end of the rope. The swing guided me out above the creek and I soared on wings of wax. With each burst of energy I brought the rope out farther and farther. How high could I go? How far could I go? The sky and the forest were endless, and I could fly wherever I wanted.

Was it possible to jump the creek? I spied a soft patch of dirt on the other side, packed nicely into the bank. If I measured it just right… no. No time for thinking. Only action. You must fly. And I let go at the apex, where time slowed and I hung suspended for never-ending seconds. I predicted the flight path. I predicted the landing. I relied on instincts, but my instincts failed to let me know of the rocky outcropping or the snap of a broken leg. A sound like wet carrots. I still shudder when a twig breaks in the rain or when the house settles in the wind. Then my sister came to me and watched as I lay in the shallow water, knee bent at an impossible angle. She came to me, lifted my head up and said, “Please don’t leave again.”

How long ago had the rope swing been cut down? It was after I came back from the hospital with a bottle of pills in my hand and stitches around my tibia. Was this still a dream or memory?

The girl made a sound like a croaking frog. Her mouth unhinged and slowly opened. Darkness rolled out like fog on a wharf. She was trying to speak. Dear god, she was trying to speak! I won’t listen. I refuse. I cupped my hands over my ears, but I could still see the movements of her cracked lips, the click of a black tongue, and the clatter of rotted teeth. And although my hands were tightly fastened to my ears, I still heard a voice crooning in my head.

“The door was unlocked.”

I shrieked like a banshee and lashed out with my foot. It connected with mushy skin and bone, and the girl toppled onto the floor. I scrambled out of my blankets and crawled over to the foot of my bedframe, ready to fight should she pop back up.

There was her head, lying on the floor, eyes staring up.

There was her head, and nothing else.

Her lower jaw hung open, emitting a silent scream. She was a puppet, her strings were invisible and her head had been placed at my bedside three times by an unseen entity. There was no table her head had rested on, no pike to prop it up. This was no grand illusion, no nightmare to the senses. She had been animated by her puppeteer. But where was the puppeteer?

Where was the puppeteer?

Where was the puppeteer?

Fear invited darkness, and black fingers crawled into my psyche. Just before I passed out, I peeked at my bedroom door. The latch was unfastened, and the door had been cracked open.

* * * * * *

When I came to, my first thought was that I was late to my rounds. The second thought was of the girl’s head. It was nowhere to be found. My bedroom door was closed and the latch was down tightly. Was the girl still in my house, hidden somewhere in the corners and dusty drawers?

I burst from my room and flew down the stairs. The pale girl could wait. I needed to check the doors and windows. Front door. Check. Back door. Check. Garage door. Locked. Basement door. Still locked and barricaded with chairs. Attic steps. The latch wasn’t loose. Backyard gate. Still boarded. The windows were all closed and the blinds still drawn. Relief swept through me like an ebbing tide. Nothing was amiss. My house was safe.

Then a rustle came from the foyer. Loud, slow footsteps in the room next to me. Footsteps that do not have an owner, because I should be the only one home. They clamber on hardwood, then stop, followed by pervasive silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t belong. The kind of silence you hear in a forest when there should be birds singing, crickets chirping, and leaves crackling. The kind of silence you hear as you fly through the air, breath held, seconds away from impact.

I crouched as low and quiet as a boulder. Those were definitely footsteps. I waited for them to pick up again. But, they didn’t. I dared them to resound through the house once more, just so I could hear their quickened approach from around the corner and have enough time to feel the static roll up behind my eyes as the monster comes into view.

Instead there came a knocking from the front door.

I nearly laughed, if not for the fear which held back my choked voice. It was the start of a joke passed down for generations. I wanted to call out “Who’s there?” and wait for a response. Maybe the footsteps would walk over and check who it was. Maybe they’ll let them in. We can’t have that, now can we?

I crept around the corner and into the foyer. Were those the gleam of a pair of eyes, or the sheen of the streetlamp outside? Was that the glistening of talons in the far corner, or a shattered vase? Was there a face waiting at the top of the stairs, or a bundle of grimy clothes? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. If something was hidden in my house with the intent to attack, they would have done so a hundred times over.

Two small windows sit on either side of the front door, filled with lacy drapes that were not easy to look into but easy to look out from. I pushed some aside and recognized my visitor.

It was the grinning man. How nice of him to check on me.

He faced the door, unaware that I was peeking at him from the side. Unaware, or indifferent? I thought. He was a tall, gangly creature. The brim of his low cap could reach the top of the doorframe. His skinny arms hung loosely at his side. The sodden briefcase was held in his hand, forming puddles around his pristine new dress shoes. The moon was slim tonight and granted me little light. The stars were drowned out by the streetlights, and I could see the whites of his teeth as they gave off a dim glow. His cap was not low enough to hide his eyes, although I still could not see them within that well of darkness behind his shadow. If I were to see the whites of his eyes and realize they were staring at me, I would’ve lost all feeling in my legs.

The knocking came again, and although the grinning man had not moved nor raised a hand to the door, that hollow tap resounded through my serene house. I resolved to have no more of this foolish game. This spectre wasn’t the ringleader, that much was clear, and neither was the pale girl without a body. I would have to confront the other.

* * * * * *

How long have I stared into the mirror? It’s been long enough, I suppose. Long enough for me to find what I needed in the tool cabinet downstairs. Long enough for me to try summoning it with the lights on, then the lights off, then with half the lights off, then with a flashlight. Long enough for the wind to pick up outside, whistling through bare trees like a ghost train rolling through town. Long enough for my tired eyes to droop, and when they picked back up they saw the thing behind my shoulder.

Its long torso undulated, stretching up like a tightly woven rope or a long line of skinny sausages. Its beady eyes were dark glass marbles, and its hair was thin as spider’s silk. Was its third appearance any more frightening than the first or second? Wasn’t I always less frightened during the big reveal in horror movies? Wasn’t the fear of the unknown the only thing that kept my blood pumping while I sat in the back and sipped out of an unmarked bottle?

So what is real and what is imaginary? Is the creature real, with its widening gullet and manifold teeth? Is the rolltop desk real, the one that peers from around the corner of the hallway with its ornate steel knob? Am I real, with my messy beard, baggy eyes, rank ill-fitted pajamas, and quivering mouth? Is this hammer real, the one I clench in my hand?

Let’s find out, shall we?

The act is a blur. The motion was quick and direct. All I know is that I stand triumphant over a pile of scattered broken shards. The snake creature is gone, and I laugh when I can no longer feel its grip on my shoulder.

And I laugh when the hammer drops to the floor, discarded, its job done.

And I laugh when I see another mirror underneath the smashed remains.

And I laugh when I can’t see my reflection in the new one.

And I laugh when I walk into the hallway and see a rolltop desk with dark wooden panels and a single drawer with an ornate steel knob.

And I laugh when I pull the drawer open and see a thumbstick and a shred of paper with a simple message scrawled in shaky handwriting.

PW: incisorsaurus

And I laugh when I remember my father used to be a dentist.

And I laugh when I go downstairs and put the password in his computer.

And I laugh when I insert the thumbstick and a folder pops up.

But the laugh dies when I see the photos.

Photos of a crime scene. Yellow tape crisscrossing door frames. Green numbered cones stand next to a knife, a hammer, splotches of blood, shreds of clothes, and three black body bags.

I could hear the officers at the scene, as if they were next to me now. Stand back, son. What were you doing out late at night?

It wasn’t my fault. The door was unlocked.

It was a culmination of events. I was in junior high when my leg snapped in two. My sister found me on the other side of the creek. Mom and dad weren’t home. A neighbor called an ambulance. It was a clean break, and the surgeon said it would mend. They put me on painkillers, and when that wasn’t enough, they prescribed opioids. They felt grand, and when I was all out I tried to get more. And when they said I couldn’t get more, I turned to stronger stuff. It wasn’t a lot, just enough to satiate the hunger. I was hardly a teenager, and just coming into high school. When my family found out, I learned how to make lean to curb the jitters. One night, they found a soda bottle in the back of the pantry, filled to the brim with purple salvation. They wanted to talk, but I wasn’t in the mood. I brushed past my father. He didn’t say a word. My sister tried to block me. “Please don’t leave again,” she begged. I pushed her aside. She hit her chin on the railing. It was bad, but I kept moving. My mother stood in the doorframe of my bedroom. She said, “You can’t hide away forever.” Yeah? Watch me, mom. I slammed the door in her face and pulled a bookcase in front of it. They didn’t know what it felt like. The shakes. The fog. The pain. It never went away. I woke up in the middle of the night. I was drowning in sweat. My alarm clock said half past one. I pushed the bookcase aside and snuck downstairs to the pantry. The bottle wasn’t there. They drained it and threw it out. They couldn’t do this to me! I knew a place. I knew some people. I grabbed my keys and slipped out the front door. The lock was old and loud. I couldn’t afford to wake them up.

I left it unlocked.

I drove to the convenience stores first, but they knew me and threatened to call the cops. I tried the underpass, but they weren’t selling. I called my apothecary, but it was late and he wouldn’t pick up. I had nowhere else to go, so I returned home. My street was filled with red and blue lights. They were still piecing everything together. They told me the attacker subdued my father first. He gouged out his eyes and caved his head in with a hammer. Then he went after my mother. He cut off all her fingers and toes, then tied them together into a long rope and left them on the floor as a gift. She had been alive and felt everything. Then he found my sister hiding under my bed. He dragged her out by her ankles and threw her against the wall. She wasn’t responsive, but he didn’t need a witness. He ripped off her head and stuck it on the end of the bannister. They found the sick bastard trying to hop the freeway. He had stains on his hands and a ring finger in his pocket. It was matched to my mother. The officers said there was no forced entry through the windows, so he must’ve come in through the front door. Either he was let in or the door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

The door was unlocked.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The door was unlocked?

thedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlockedthedoorwasunlocked

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

You let him in.

* * * * * *

There is a light on in the downstairs bathroom. I am drawn to its glow, a moth to a flame. I step inside and find a bathtub full of hot water. I soundlessly strip down to my thin skin and stretched bones. When I fold my pajamas and tuck them in a corner, I notice the dripping black briefcase perched on the edge of the sink. It beckons me and I obey its tender request. I unfasten the latches and pop the lid open. Red velvet lines the inside edges, and it is both soft and soggy to the touch.

A pile of wet razor blades wink at me inside the briefcase. My father’s razor blades. So that’s where they’ve been hiding.

I pinch one and run its smooth blade over a fingernail. It makes a quick, deep indent. They’ve been kept in spectacular condition.

I know what I have to do, I beseech my Mecca like a priest calling out to his god. I know what you want from me, but I don’t think I have the strength to do it.

The door was unlocked, the house whispered.

I step into the bath. The water is scalding, but I lower myself further into its burning embrace. I know it was, I begged my holy land to understand. But I didn’t turn back. I didn’t know–

The door was unlocked, the house accused.

The steaming water splashes up to my neck. It sloshes over the edge like an overflowing cup. He let himself in. The lawyers said he was sick. The judge said he was unfit for trial. I never even got a good look at his face–

The door was unlocked.

“I’m sorry!” It erupted from my lungs like a raging bull. I hated the way it scraped over my sandpaper tongue. “I’m sorry for everything!”

There is a window perched high above the foot of the tub. I heard a tapping come from it. It was the grinning man. He had lost his hat, and his face pressed into the frosty glass. His smile was the same, but his eyes forced tremors into my gut.

Rather, he didn’t have eyes.

Two dark black pits swirled in his sockets. Congealed blood caked around the rims and streaked down his cheeks to a pair of cracked lips.

The door was unlocked.

There was a flash of movement in my peripherals. The snake woman, with talons for legs and a body like stuffed sausages, peered from the open doorway. She clicked her tiny feet in anticipation. If she was smiling, I could never tell with her long, needle-like teeth getting in the way.

The door was unlocked.

Something bubbled up from the drain. The pale girl’s head breached the surface. Her blue skin glistened in the low light as she bobbed in the tub. Her yellow eyes drained excess water as they stared at me. I pulled my legs back, scrambling to the other end to get away from the spectre with thinning hair and a gash on its chin.

The door was unlocked.

They were all chanting it. This is no longer a test. My house has forsaken me and sent these phantoms to haunt my nights. My teeth chattered despite the boiling water that held me captive. I pressed the razor into my wrist. Steel bit into flesh and warm red blood flowed like a creek. Just a quick swipe, like a credit card. A quick transaction, and it will all be done.

The door was unlocked!

The door was unlocked!

The door was unlocked!

The door was unlocked!

* * * * * *

It started when I thought of the mail pile. I used to keep the mail nice and tidy. I would organize them into stacks, a big spot for my father, a corner reserved for my mother, and even my sister would get some mail from time to time. I’d never open them though, just in case they came ba… well, just in case. It was part of my ritual. Whatever happened to those good habits? Who would keep the mail from overflowing in front of the door and blocking the mail slot? Who would bring the packages inside from the vicious sun or pouring rain? And what about those nice people who deliver my groceries every week? I haven’t been eating well lately, but they’d bring them over regardless, and I’d take time to stack the cans and place the dinners in the freezer. How rude would it be if they came back and found that I hadn’t brought in the last batch? I haven’t taken the trash out in a while. Just started throwing the bags in the garage, I couldn’t afford to leave my house for a second. Who would have to deal with that mess when I’m gone?

At the end of the day, it was a bunch of loose ends that had to be tied up. I pulled the drain and squirmed out of the tub. My skin was sun-dried tomato, and my fingers were weathered raisins. I didn’t see the pale girl’s head tumble down the drain, but she was gone when I looked back. So was the grinning man from the window. And the snake woman had retreated back into the mirror world.

The briefcase was still next to the sink. I put the razors back and shut the lid. I couldn’t leave yet. Who would take care of the house? Who would make sure the windows were closed and the doors were locked? No one but a true guardian. And when the previous guardian can no longer fulfill his duties or stay at his post, why, he appointed a successor.

I put on some simple clothes and went on a small hunt. I found my phone underneath the coat rack, where my father’s old trenchcoat and long-tipped cap hung like whorled leaves. Funny how the mind can easily miss such simple details. It still had some juice left, and the screen showed hundreds of missed calls and texts. I called the first person I knew would pick up this late at night. It rang three times, then a voice like a songbird answered. I nearly cried when I talked back to the first person in months.

“Hi, Angela.” My voice was foreign, and it crackled like an old-timey radio. “Yeah, it’s late. … And it’s been a while. … No, I haven’t been taking them for a long time. … No. No, I’m not okay. … Do you think you can look over the house for a bit? Just until I get better? … Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Call my grandparents while you’re at it. I need to take care of something.”

I threw together some clothes in an overnight bag. I found my pills behind the nightstand. Wonder how they got there. I felt a bit of remorse for leaving the house to Angela in such a pitiful state. It was good to feel more remorse for leaving the house to someone than leaving the house in general. A step in the right direction.

Two sets of headlights came around the bend, lighting up the bushes and fence in the backyard. I came out to meet Angela while my grandparents let their car idle. She told me I looked awful. I told her the upstairs mirror was broken and handed her a set of house keys.

“Please don’t forget to lock the doors.”

She promised she wouldn’t.

I climbed into the back of my grandparents’ car. Grandpa was behind the wheel. His steely eyes looked at me through the rearview mirror, written with concern. Grandma was in the front seat. She turned around to talk.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

I breathed heavily. “I am now.”

“Do you have your pills?”

I shook the bottle of methadone. I made a silent vow to not misplace them this time.

“That’s good,” she said. “Then everything will turn out right.”

We turned around and headed for the main street. As we passed the house, I took one more longing look at my bedroom window. I expected to see the scorned faces of the grinning man, the snake woman, and the pale girl staring at me from those frosty panes.

But I saw nothing in the window. There were no more ghosts.