The Knocking

Winston Elbiant couldn’t quite explain why he felt so uneasy. That didn’t stop him from trying, though. His first explanation was that maybe he was uneasy in the same way a person felt uncomfortable if their mother made them wear something a little too extravagant for picture day. He knew it wasn’t uneasy in the way someone got uneasy when their gentleman friend got too close. Uneasy in an entirely new way. Uneasy in a way where his skin is crawling with otherworldly creatures and his heart nearly fails on him like everybody in his life has. Uneasy in the most unsettling way. A way where Winston couldn’t bring himself to turn around because his body had a mind of its own and refused to move; even if he did, his eyes would betray him and leak. There was a feeling in his bones, in his atoms even, and they told him in the language that they spoke, that if he turned around and looked into the dense forest, the source of the voices, he may never remain on this plane of existence again. Naturally, Winston composed himself, letting the thoughts flow into a lazy river.

He often boarded the 632 transit bus on Simple Street, but never was there a feeling of impending doom—a feeling that, if he got on, something terrible would happen to him. But he told himself that the new meds take time to work, and that he hadn’t taken the old ones since the spring. This was simply his body adjusting to the medication.

Winston paid the fare and went to his usual spot—at the back of the bus, the seat in the left corner where he liked it. The bus was empty, so Winston had his pick. He had a list of random things he liked, and one thing on that list was an empty bus. He loved to sit in empty buses and just think about his problems—his interests, and when he was done, he’d take a nap until home came. It’s not that he preferred being alone on an empty bus. He just found being alone easier than making friends, even if he did want them.

There was no use thinking about that, now. Instead, his mind drifted to his recent session with Doctor Goode.

THE SESSION

“Voices, you say? You’re hearing voices again?” said the Doctor.

That had been difficult to admit, but Winston continued, swallowing each word with childlike defiance.

“Yes, Doctor. Voices. All day, every day.”

“Well, what are these voices telling you, Winston?”

“What are they not telling me? They tell me everything.”

“What does ‘everything’ mean to you?”

“What it can only mean. The End. The End of—”

Doctor Goode’s eyebrows furrowed, his skin tightening at the forehead and his pen hitting the notepad on his lap with a small thump! The timer on his phone roared louder than Winston ever could, and with that, Doctor Goode excused Winston, handing him yet another love note!

“I've given you a prescription of your new medication and I’ve set the dosage to twenty milligrams for now. I’d like you to monitor your symptoms. I’ll see you next session.”

Doctor Goode always said that. It let Winston know there'd be another session. There always was.

Back on the bus, a bead of sweat fell from Winston’s nose, hitting the floor. It made him realize the feeling resurfaced, that it never really dissipated. Gasping at the lack of awareness he had for danger, he jumped up to stand, hands gripping, no tearing, the faux leather of the seat in front. The eeriness of the situation created in him the urgency to leave, but he was frozen from fright. The lights flickered, starting from the front of the bus. One by one, as each new light panel flickered, the bulbs and panels that began before failed, going beyond its limits and popping like popcorn. Finally the quiet came, and with it, the dark.

Winston didn’t dare to make a sound, let alone breathe.

There was a loud rip in the sky that brought with it a bright flash of light, revealing a book on the ground, soaking wet. On the cover was a beast, sickly white and incredibly skinny. The creature walked on all fours, though in a strange way where its stomach faced the sky and its arms dislocated to better suit quadruped life. Winston, commanded by a force far stronger than him, that told him in dancing whispers to touch the book, bent down and made contact.

He sunk into a pit almost instantaneously, the bus crumbling before him as fell into the voices. It all felt much too real, and Winston cried because he knew that his illness would take him.

They come banging on your door, harbingers of terror.

Three of them cloaked, never invited, but always, they visit.

They take those who don’t belong, and leave no trace.

They need you willing or tormented to the brink of insanity,

They reside Behind, don’t look Behind. They take those who won’t be missed,

Not many know of their existence, but those who do, call them,

The Knocking.

Winston was spat back out, the bus running as it did before, not knowing of the world below. “Last stop,” said the bus driver. With a desperate push on the door he tumbled out of the bus. He emptied his stomach, crying from the pain and the stench and the torment. Wanting to live, he ran home. As he got closer, he felt safer and safer. It was dark and quiet when he came home, but not in a dangerous way. It was dark and quiet for all the right reasons.

But then the Knocking came. It came loud and impatient and hungry. There came no feeling of impending doom and no urge to look Behind. Winston was in the clear after all, and through the window of the living room he saw a man on his front porch shaking from fright, skin pale as the moon. He was no beast.

“Open the door.” Winston did as he was told. As the door swung open, the pale man charged in with newfound strength. “Close it!” When the door shut, there came a banging on the door fueled by anger. Angry because they were too late.

“They’re coming for you too, aren’t they?” whispered Winston when the knocks grew lazy and tired and he was sure they were gone. The skinny man only stared, for there was no need to speak, no need to waste what time and energy he had left. “How did you find me?” There was mistrust in his voice as his mind cleared up.

He cleared his dry throat but the words that came out were still chalky. “Yours was the only house that felt safe… that felt familiar. Everywhere else has lost its colour. There’s no one else around here.”

Winston needed more out of him, but there was no use, because the Knocking came again. The lights flickered.

“Don’t open the door, and don’t look Behind,” said the frail man. Winston had no intention of doing so. Finally, a piercing shriek, a single frequency that shattered light bulbs and eclipsed the house in darkness. There was a man by the window with ruby eyes and a deep, sinister grin. He was gone in an instant. Winston felt a burning pit in his stomach, and in his mind, he saw a hand digging below the soil, working its way up to the surface, urging Winston to open the door. Then he saw, no, imagined the soil in his stomach, and slowly he felt his throat itch as if something was clawing its way—

Despite not knowing each other, the boys called out to each other in desperation, feeling safer and warmer in each other’s company than alone and cold in the dark.

Minutes pass when they’re sure quiet will last. The first thing Winston did was introduce himself, where he learned the name of the man before him. “How long have they been chasing you, Earl?” Winston wanted to know if one day, the torment would stop.

“A little over a year.” There was pain in his voice, that much was clear to Winston. He had no choice but to trust Earl, he seemed like a good man. He felt like one. “I had a family. I know I did. No one remembers them, but there’s a feeling in my bones—”

“How do we kill them?” Winston thought about survival. With Earl’s help, he could live. Besides, having Earl around made him feel safe. He felt like he could survive with Earl.

He laughed like a maniac, and Winston knew that Earl had not entirely been unscathed from a year of avoiding the Knocking. “There’s no killing them. Believe me, I tried.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because there’s a way of stopping them.”

“How?”

“The book. I left it for you.”

Winston fell and dreamt. It all made sense now. He thought back to the contents of the book until they weren’t just thoughts anymore.

They take those who won’t be missed. They take those who don’t belong. They need you willing.

Without speaking, Earl and Winston knew. They knew that out of necessity and convenience, they needed to feel for one other. In the world out there, under regular and mundane circumstances, they would not have loved each other. But they knew, even in their state of mind, that no one else would love them but each other. To remain on the surface world, they’d ground each other; they’d be each other’s anchors. If one were to pass on one could only guess what would happen.

Oh, how comforting the image of the beast is, digging its way through the deep ground and dragging Winston to the Behind!

Shut up, Winston told the voices.

Their love was gradual and inorganic. It was the only form of love they could have, and they took the opportunity with fever. It began with telling childhood memories and silly first kiss stories in the dark, dark bathroom lit with candles and body heat. It was hard to hate one another or be angry with one another too long because those emotions brought out the Beast and the Knocking.

Weeks passed and the Knocking visited once again and this time, the three pale creatures appeared ready to take the two men, no longer patient with their torment. But, Winston and Earl kissed, and the creatures cowered away. With each word promised, and with each kiss placed, Winston and Earl found that the Knocking withered away, afraid of their union. They held each other close that night and consummated their strange love, distracting each other from the creatures that wished to take them. As they embraced, they found strange comfort in their predicament. He thought about the man in his bed. Winston had always wanted company, had always wanted a friend. Earl was somewhat of a friend now, somewhat more, and that was good enough for him.

It took months for the voices to return.

“Earl, they’re coming for us…” whispered Winston in fright.

Who’s coming for us? He was writing away at his desk, finishing a job he had to do. Vision and perception distorted, Winston couldn’t tell if Earl’s lips were moving. Had he imagined hearing that? He couldn’t tell any more. Winston had made breakfast that morning. It was a simple breakfast, a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes. Still, no matter how simple, Earl rewarded him with praise.

“The Knocking. They’re here. I see Behind this realm. I hear their voices…”

“Voices, you say? You’re hearing voices again?” said Earl. The lights flickered, and Winston found it strange that the doctor was writing down what he was saying. He was trying to communicate with Earl and express his fears and worries.

“Why are you writing this down, Earl?” He was wearing a white lab coat now. It confused Winston. His pen hit the notepad with a thump! The timer on Earl’s phone roared louder than Winston ever could. With that, a knock came from the door. It was the receptionist letting Earl know the next patient was in the waiting room. He told her it would be just a second. Who is this woman? he thought.

“Here’s a prescription for your medication. I’ve increased the dosage to fifty milligrams. I’ll see you next session.”

There was a moment of clarity and realization before Winston succumbed. He went beyond, he went Behind. It was dark there and his mind was foggy. He never liked it with the pale monsters.

“Thanks Doctor Goode.” He sounded robotic now.

“You’re so welcome, Winston,” said Doctor Earl Goode. “I’m here to help.”