I was trying to write a different blog post, but instead, I wrote this creepy nanofic instead. Spooky season is here, folks. Enjoy.
He Who Knocks
Sometimes I forget things. She doesn’t like that. She says I should remember everything, and I should prepare for anything. She says I must do nothing. She says I must not try. She says if I try, he will come. He will knock. He will bring his little dark box. He will unleash its shadows on me, and I will die, or worse. She says I summon him. It is my fault. It is my fault she is so afraid.I must feel ashamed for summoning him. I must never answer the door. I must no longer try. I must either do, or do nothing.
She prefers I do nothing. He will not—perhaps he cannot—knock if I do nothing. I do not know. Sometimes, I forget things.
He only comes when no one wants him. He doesn’t come all the time. But sometimes I forget that. Sometimes, when I’m not sure I can do, and I know that I cannot do nothing, I try. Sometimes I try, and he knocks. Sometimes I try, and he does not. Sometimes I do, and still he knocks. Sometimes I do nothing. When I do nothing, he does not knock.
I think about him while I cry in my room.
I do not like to cry. It means I am weak. If I am weak, then when I try, he will knock.
That is what happens today. I try. She wails. I cry. I do not want to cry. I always cry. Today, I rush to the window to see him.
He comes. I see him. I have not met him before—although, sometimes I forget things—but I see him now. I see his little box. It fits nicely in his hands. He does not look how I expect. He has kind, but weary eyes.
He sees me too.
I see him. He is holding his box. He does not look scary.
She says things don’t always look how they are. She says he will kill me. He will use his box on me. I should never look at him again. We will hide forever.
…But I do not want to hide forever.
I open the door. He is gone. His box sits on the porch. I stoop down, and I lift it. It fits nicely in my hands. She lingers close, looking at the box with my eyes, but she stays quiet.
I open the lid.
Sometimes, I forget things. I know that. I decide I will remember this. I tuck the box close to my heart. I close the door. She stays quiet—I like it when she stays quiet—and then, she wilts into a bulb. Small. Manageable.
I take the box to my room. I look at it. I no longer want to cry. I learn from it, I think. The fear has shrank away. I feel closer to whole.
Sometimes, I forget things. But I will remember this.
Or at least—I will try.
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