The Ringing Doorbell

The doorbell rang. Again. Thalia did her best to ignore it the first time, but the second ring sounded more brusque, more demanding.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Leave me the fuck alone.”

The doorbell rang again. Once more, Thalia refused to answer. She pulled her sheet and comforter over her, up to her chin, thinking this in some way protected her, absolved her from the scowls of society.

Turning angrily on her side, she pulled the bedclothes over her head and said to whomever it was who listened to all her musings, “Go away. Go away. Go away.”

Aside from bathroom trips and the odd venture to the kitchen for something edible to sustain her, Thalia hadn’t left her bed in nearly a week. This was not unusual for Thalia. It often seemed as routine as clockwork. Too often, and for no apparent reason, she’d sink to the very depths of depression, where dying became a real invitation to escape. There was neither rhyme nor reason to when these bouts would descend upon her but, when they did, they did so with a vengeance.

Silence There was no fourth ring at the door. Thalia imagined there would be some delivery or other awaiting her when she finally opened the front door. Or, if it had been someone needing or providing information, there may be some indication that he or she would be back. Sometimes they. She suddenly realized it had been a few years since the Jehovah’s Witnesses had been by. Though not in any way interested in what they had to say, she had always stood and listened, smiling and nodding. She’d take the literature they offered and, after a ‘Have a good day,” close the front door. She didn’t throw out the pamphlets and brochures, mostly because she admired the conviction and tenacity with which the representatives answered the calling they heard. Or wanted to hear. At any rate, she would leave the literature on the coffee table beside the TV. Sometimes she would look at it and read what they had left. Eventually, though, it would end up in the trash.

She dreaded the Jehovahs. They were unabashed in their love for Christ and their fellow man. That, of course, was admirable, but they sought those who would banter with them, people who might love a good argument. They wanted to chat. Thalia was, for all intents and purposes, selectively mute. Though she could, when the darkness shrouded her, she didn’t want to see or talk to anyone.

She rolled back and grabbed the TV remote. If she didn’t watch TV or read or listen to music, or the news radio, she would fall into the trap of thinking. About her life, about her regrets, about the people she loved, but would no longer see, the terrible and traumatic events of her teenage years. Every insult, every betrayal, every tear she’d ever cried would all come rushing back to consume her in their jagged maw. It was at those times she wondered not how she would get through this depression, but how she would get through the next minute.

When these bouts came upon her, she isolated completely. No phone, no contacts, no plans at all. If she had had appointments planned, she cancelled them. That she could do by email. Thalia wasn’t a fan of all things computer, but she was infinitely grateful for email, and text. Those options validated her abandonment of having to communicate in any other way.

The next day found her in the usual fetal position, head under the covers that had become her world for however long the current misery would last.

Her phone, which had been silent for the past two days, buzzed loudly. She’d forgotten to turn on the Do Not Disturb. Though she had no intention of answering it, she glanced at the name of the caller as it flashed on the screen. ‘Unknown Number.” She got a lot of those, especially in the last week. At least twice every day. Someone more attuned to the world around them would likely have checked the number or hit ‘reply’ just to see who was at the other end. Thalia didn’t care.

It wasn’t that she chose to seclude and take to her bed, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. She had no choice. Her mind more or less deposited her there when the medications the doctor prescribed a few years ago stopped working. After her time of community service, everything had changed. It was after that the darkness found her, and the only place she could comfort herself was to withdraw into the events that had brought her to this point. Her brain was on autopilot, running through every hurt, every deceit, every abandonment and these left her too distraught, too sad to want to contemplate life.

Nestled in her bed, she was watching a news channel. She watched a lot of news when she was in these moods. Perhaps it was comforting to know there were others surviving things worse than she was experiencing. Sometimes not surviving. She knew it was horribly, morally wrong but she would envy them. They had escaped. Most of her wanted to follow them into the unknown, but enough of her sought the possibility that “this, too would pass”.

At 11 a.m., she thought about getting something to eat. How long since her last ‘meal’ had it been? At least a day. Throwing the covers aside and sliding into her slippers, Thalia padded down the hall towards the kitchen. There were windows along the hallway wall and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw what she thought was movement on the back deck. She squinted her eyes to look more carefully at the spot, but saw nothing. She continued to the kitchen and was just pouring herself some orange juice, when the doorbell rang.

Shit! She quickly leaned closer to the kitchen counter, hoping whoever it was couldn’t see her through the small windows on either side of the door. Being caught like this made her frantic. She desperately debated whether she could get away with not answering.

Having decided to remain put, Thalia put her arms to her sides and edged them into the empty space between the fridge and counter, hoping that gave her a scintilla more cover.

The phone she’d left in the bedroom began buzzing. Caught off guard, she felt trapped. Her heart was beating way too fast and she felt the familiar heat of panic rising inside her. After four rings, the phone went silent. Thalia peeked carefully around the kitchen corner towards the front door. As she did, she saw the shadow of someone standing at the door. The phone rang again and she felt her insides drop. Somehow, she knew instinctively it was the person knocking at the door who was calling her number. But she was determined. She would not be moved. All the doors were locked and the curtains drawn. If it hadn’t been for her car in the driveway, it would definitely look as if no one were home. Damn that car, she thought, wishing she had put it in the garage. Stupid. Something to remember for her next date with suicidal depression.

Whenever that came.

As the phone chimed into her thoughts yet again, the person at the door began pounding on it. This was definitely out of the ordinary. Usually, by now, everyone would give up and leave. But, whoever it was, he or she wasn’t giving up without a fulsome try.

“I can’t stay here all day,” she said to herself. With that, she dropped to her knees, then her stomach and dragged herself, boot camp-style, across the kitchen floor to the hallway. Once there, she stopped and listened for the sound of a car engine, or conversation…some clue as to who and what.

But silence.

After five minutes had passed without further knocking or ringing or buzzing, Thalia decided she could safely make her way back to bed. As she threw herself on the bed, with a loud, ‘Shit’, she realized she’d forgotten to get something to eat. She wasn’t really hungry. Food could wait.

When two hours had passed, and dusk was settling in for the night, Thalia felt sufficiently relieved to take her chances on another trip to the kitchen. The phone and the doorbell had remained silent. She had almost forgotten her upset of earlier, and had nestled back into her cocoon of silence under the covers.

But, hunger was beckoning loudly. Slowly she got out of bed and, without turning on any lights started down the hall to the kitchen. After two steps, she stopped dead in her tracks as she could see the outline of two people in a car parked outside the house. Again, Thalia dropped to the floor, hoping she hadn’t been seen. She crawled back to her bedroom and feverishly wondered if this were the sort of episode that warranted a 911 call. She imagined what complaint she should register. “There are two people in a car parked outside my house,” didn’t seem like a valid crime report. Dispatch would think her an idiot. No, she would tough this out because, as she convinced herself, she was being overly dramatic, far too suspicious, and ridiculous.

The crawl back to the kitchen felt as if it took two hours, but it had been less than a minute. When she reached the safety of the kitchen, she pulled out a chair from the table and dragged it over to the window above the sink. Climbing up onto it, Thalia dared a furtive look from under the lace curtains. The car was there just as before, but she couldn’t tell if there were anyone inside it. She’d need her glasses to focus properly with only the street lamp illuminating the night.

She got down from the chair, and decided to get the leftover piece of cake she’d been given from the office party. As she pulled the refrigerator handle, the light inside the fridge bore into her eyes like blazing fire. Quickly, she shut the door, once again praying nothing inside the house could be seen from outside.

She felt exposed where she was standing and, as stealthily as possible, made her way back to the bedroom. Despite her chronic reluctance to speak to anyone, Thalia felt a definite craving for human contact. Her phone had slipped onto the floor beside her bed. Sitting down, with her back against the bed, she dialed the only number she knew off by heart. Her cousin, Sofie. The fact that Sofie lived 3000 miles away seemed somehow immaterial. Thalia let the phone at the other end ring at least 30 times. No response. Of course. It was five hours ahead where Sofie lived. She would likely be asleep with her phone turned off.

All Thalia wanted was to climb back into the safety of her bed, and resume the silent and dark vigil she knew so well. But having seen two people in the car, and now being uncertain if they were still there, she needed to hear a comforting voice. Or a voice that could call 911 if need be.

Who else could she phone? Someone who might be able to help if called upon? Knowing no one’s phone number except Sofie’s, Thalia thought of her address book in the top drawer of the desk in her small office that adjoined the kitchen. As sweat began to form on her face, she began another crawl towards the kitchen.

“This is ludicrous,” kept playing on a loop inside her head. In her desire to get to the office as quickly as possible, Thalia neglected to check on the parked car and its potential occupancy. She made her way to her office, through the kitchen on her stomach, and sat up beside the desk that had been hers for nearly 30 years. There was comfort in the familiarity.

The address book was in the top left-hand drawer of the desk. Thalia fished it out and began looking for someone to call. It was hard to read her handwriting in the old book, especially through the doodles on every page. The second she hit upon “Gabriel”, she knew he’d be the best person to contact.

“Ah shit.” She’d left her phone in the bedroom. At the back of her mind a thought played, one that amused her despite the circumstances. “At least I feel less depressed than I have been for days.” Fear does that, she decided.

She dreaded the crawl back to her room. Did she dare check to see if the car was occupied? Halfway down the hall, she strained her head to look out the window. As she did, her heart stopped. She screamed, as the face of a man looked back in at her.

“Jesus Christ,” she shouted out loud and got up to run the rest of the way. As soon as she got to her room, she slammed and locked the door then – with astonishing ease – pushed her dresser up against it.

“911. 911.” It was definitely time to call.

She had begun to cry quietly, fearing the worst, with no idea as to what would constitute ‘worst’ in her situation.

Where had she left her phone?

Frantically, Thalia dove back down on her stomach and looked under the bed. She crawled around to the other side where she found it between her bed and nightstand. Her fingers had turned to jelly, and kept missing the correct keys on the pad. When she finally managed to type ‘911’, she felt her throat constrict, then heard a voice that seemed to come from outside the room, saying in a loud whisper, “I just saw a man staring in at me from my window,” she managed, forgetting the sound of her own voice. Before the dispatcher could say anything, Thalia added, “There’s been a car parked outside my house for a long time. There were two people in it, and someone is looking in my windows.”

She choked on the last words as the sobs began to surface. “Slow down, Ma’am. Someone is trespassing on your property?” Before Thalia could reply, the dispatcher said, “Give me your address, please. We’ll send a car to check right away.”

“Thank you,” Thalia squeaked. “Thank you.”

There was nothing to do but wait. She thought about trying to call Sofie again, but realized she needed to listen for any suspicious noises.

Thalia remained slumped against her bed, her heart still beating frantically. She tried the deep breathing that would always take the pace down a bit, but her breath caught at the base of her throat. Her Catholic upbringing finally kicked in and she began to pray the Rosary, then to St. Jude, then to St. Francis. She could only remember two prayers in their entirety, but she repeated them as fervently as a cloistered nun.

Halfway through her fourth ‘Hail Mary’, she heard a noise that seemed to come from outside her bedroom window. Through her fear, she strained to hear better. When she heard it again, she realized it was actually coming from outside her bedroom door. Someone was in the hallway!

“The police are on their way,” she shouted. “Any minute now.” Thalia lay flat and tried to force her body under the bed. It was a tight fit, but she made it. ‘Shit’. Now she was trapped. She should have been standing behind the door with her guitar in hand, intent on slamming it into the face of anyone who might try to enter.

She pulled herself back out and crawled on her knees to the guitar she kept in the corner under her bedroom window. As she did, a face, somewhat hidden in the darkness, appeared at the window.

As distraught and frantic as she was, she knew the face was somehow familiar. In the faint light, she could make out the tattoos on his face. She would never forget those.

The sound of her bedroom window shattering was the last sound she heard.

For its lead story the next day, the local six o’clock news described the murder that had taken place the night before. The victim had been identified as Thalia Maxwell, 34 years old. One suspect was in custody, and it appeared a second had escaped. The crime scene, as described by the news anchor, was reminiscent of what had been discovered at the scene of the Tate-LaBianca killings of nearly six decades earlier. The older residents of the town knew the reference was to the sheer bloodbath of the Charles Manson murders.

The suspect in custody was known to the victim, who had served jury duty for the first-degree murder trial against him and his brother eight years ago. Both had been found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment, but had escaped from maximum detention six months earlier.

Readers remembered the in-depth coverage of both the murder case and the jail break. The description of Thalia Maxwell’s murder sounded eerily familiar.

“Last night’s murder was the twelfth in a series of similar attacks over the past four months. None of the victims survived. All had recently served jury duty.”