He Who Knocks

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 am the reason he comes. 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 knock. 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, tears stroking my face.

He comes. I see him. I dry my face with my knuckles. 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.

She shrieks.

I see him. He is holding his box. He does not look scary. I tell her this.

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, now a tulip bulb in my palm. I place her in the box. Maybe this is what being whole feels like.

All I had to do was open the door and look in the box.

Sometimes, I forget things. But I will remember this. 

Or at least—I will try.