Knock Knock

Decked out in fleece sweats, sitting on a newly purchased faux leather sofa in a retro brown, Mereille looks around. Not too bad. Boxes fill the room but she’s managed to find a packet of microwave popcorn. Bayou lays curled at her feet, snoring lightly as she shovels a handful of movie-style buttered popcorn into her mouth. Just as she lifts a plastic cup of Zinfandel, a knock at the door, startles both the phone and wine out of her hands.

Damn. She strips off her sweatshirt to mop up the mess, not wanting to stain her new couch.

She hadn’t told anyone about her move. Knew she needed to make a change. Street light pours in through her large living room windows. Need to get blinds soon – too much on display here.

The weekend had been hectic – lots of moving boxes, lots of tossing things and packing crates. She timed it with Evin’s business trip to avoid another confrontation. This new place has a lot more charm than their old stuffy apartment. A cobblestone lined entry, gas lanterns, huge picture windows and a sunny kitchen sold her the first day she saw it. Tucked into a cul de sac in an old part of town, she’d been watching the renovation progress for the past year, when she and Evan first moved in together. Thankfully he never noticed her fascination with the house. She’d been drawn to its storied past.

Tip-toeing to the front door, she peeks through the keyhole. She sees no one. Maybe a branch hit the house from the gusting wind. She looks out the giant bay window, keeping herself hidden in a corner to avoid being seen from the street. Trees and leaves swirl in the gale, as if engaged in a ritualistic dance. Still no one in sight. She settles back into the corner of the living room, no lights on. No TV hook-up and no computer. The only illuminated thing is the small blue screen of her phone. She’s tempted to power it down but something tells her not to.

Another loud knocking makes her jump again. She wishes she’d told Penny or one of the girls from the lab, but she decided to do this quietly… thinking that was the smartest move. Now she’s not so sure.

Again, she pads lightly to the door, peering out. No one…. just the flickering shadows of gas lanterns teasing scary shadows on the walls. She refuses to open the door for a deeper inspection. Instead, she double bolts it, turns out the outdoor lights and creeps up the stairs with her popcorn and wine.

Her phone rings and Evin’s face lights up the screen. Nope, not answering it. You can’t break up with someone and continue to harass them day after day.

More knocking at the door downstairs. She huddles in what will be her bedroom and grabs a blanket from one of the boxes stacked in the room. She shivers wishing the dog would come up. At least he’s not barking – but the old bugger is nearly deaf. Evin never liked him.

She feels guilty leaving the pup downstairs alone, likely unaware that someone may be trying to break in. Slipping out of her tennis shoes and socks, she takes the stairs again, trying to be brave to rescue her old dog. The echo of voices downstairs stops her in her tracks. Sounds like they’re coming from the kitchen. But Bayou – how is he not raising a ruckus?

A gust of wind whips her hair back. She stares at the open door, as leaves and pine needles tango in the foyer. I locked this fuckin’ door. What the Hell is going on?

She’s almost afraid to close it, thinking she might shut in an intruder. But she does so anyway, equally fearful of the storm brewing outside. She sneaks into the living room where Bayou is sacked out, feet in the air snoring on the floor.

A red light flickers from the kitchen, which she can sort of see from where she’s standing.

“Hello? Anyone there?” Silence.

“Evin?” More silence.

She slinks to the kitchen to investigate. The blinking light of the microwave looks ominous. Everything appears to be in its place – at least not disturbed from when she moved boxes in here. The back door is cracked open a smidge. Was it like this before? The screen door smacks closed and flies open when another gust of wind pummels the house. The sound drops her to her knees and she swears.

“Halloo? Anyone home?” A raspy woman’s voice comes from the front of the house.

“Hello? Whos’ there?” she asks weakly,

“Dear, it’s Mrs. Aireen from across the street.”

She sighs in relief and pulls herself up to meet her new neighbor.

“Hello, I’m Mer… wait, how did you get in here? That was dead bolted.” Her heart pounds in her chest and sweat drips down her spine, despite the chilly gusts rustling things about.

“Locked? No, door was open.”

Mereille faces the older woman who looks like she’s just come from the garden, decked out in overalls, flannel shirt, and garden clogs. Wisps of gray hair halo her impish face and startling lavender-colored eyes. If anyone could be described as looking like a witch, it would be her new neighbor, Mrs. Aireen.

“No, I dead bolted it twice and it keeps busting open. This house haunted?” She’d heard such rumors but has never held much belief in ghosts and all that business.

“That’s mighty curious. Why yes, this old place has quite a notorious past. You never heard the stories?”

Mereille swallows the bile rising in her throat. “I heard something about old Mr. Carmine – that he had a lot of ex-wives… some of whom were found buried at an old farmhouse he owned.”

Mrs. Aireen nods, stepping to the edge of the foyer, after shutting the front door. “These nor’easters are getting rougher. You probably didn’t bolt it all the way and the wind just forced its way in. Winds do that, you know.”

Mireille stays back, watching the woman, wondering if maybe this is some strange dream she can’t get out of. And after a moment, she realizes the woman has been talking the entire time and is waiting on an answer.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Repeat what? I’m waiting for you to invite me in, properly. Don’t want to overstep.”

The young woman nearly caves to her inner, well-raised nature, stepping closer, an apology on her lips but then the older woman transforms before her eyes. She finds herself standing before a fuming Evin who’s eyes are black with fury.

She lurches backward. “Wait, how did you?”

“Merry –you can’t hide from me, even here in this godless suburb. Come now, let’s get you packed up and back home where you belong.” He holds out a black leather gloved hand to her. She backs away, words stuck in her throat, as if a huge stopper has lodged in her esophagus.

Just as she ‘s about to flee to the kitchen in hopes of escaping out the back door, Bayou lumbers in, low to the ground and growling. For an elderly pit bull, he can still throw around the menace.

Distracted by the dog and worrying for her pup’s safety she takes her eyes off her former lover and tormenter. When she looks back, he’s vanished. The front door is closed – no gusts of wind – no sign of anyone.

What the Hell is happening? Am I losing my mind?

Bayou rumbles to where Evin stood, sniffing the ground and scratching the wood floors. He lets loose a mournful whine, a desperate call back to his wolf ancestors. Mereille collapses to the ground, shuddering. Her sobs fill the room, competing with Bayou’s howls. Each time she attempts to stop wailing, Bayou’s cries bring about another explosion of sound, from the deepest and darkest places within her.

Glancing to the door again, she’s relieved it’s closed and bolted. Did I imagine Mrs. Aireen? Evin? Or is this place truly haunted?

The shock of her mother’s ringtone jars her alert.

“Mom?”

“Merry? You okay? I had another vision. You left Evin?”

“Uh huh…” She’s not sure what to say. Everything feels upside down.

“Merry, did you get your meds unpacked? You can’t miss a dose, you know that.”

Shit!