The Strange Man at the Door
by Noel Lis
Somewhere in a quiet, forgotten corner of Edmonton, somebody or something rapped on the door of Mr Thomas, the sort of man in his mid-70s who had retired long ago but had never really ceased working. It was a knock with no voice: a flurry of light raps might betray a nervous insistence, while heavy thuds could indicate a calmer, more ominous inquiry. Instead, the two strikes came in short succession, even and measured with the exactness of a metronome.
Knock, knock.
A few years outdated, The Big Cats of Omaha’s Henry Doorly Zoo and Aquarium wall calendar read March 1993, an image of a Basking Shark perpetually gracing the small kitchen of No. 17 Janus Way. Above it, a dusty sunburst clock read 7:34 and had done so for a number of years. Bent over at the kitchen table, focused on an intricate weave of nylon ropes, was the Scotsman responsible for this abeyance: Mr Randall Thomas. He froze, waiting for another knock. When none came, he carefully set his incomplete knot down on a stack of Popular Science magazines living on the stovetop. Wiping his hands on a stained tea towel, Mr Thomas carefully unlaced his heavy boots and crept over the faded rug and past the stacks of half-empty cardboard boxes to the front door. With the delicacy of a thief, he rotated the lock anti-clockwise as slowly as he could, hoping the thock of the deadbolt would go unnoticed by the visitor outside.
“Goodbye! Badbye!” he thought with glee. It was a little rule of his: Mr Thomas never spoke aloud to himself. Speaking made thoughts real, so he preferred to cling to illusions of certainty, as though making the sounds was a sentence that penned his dancing thoughts. Who was at the door was irrelevant; Mr Thomas did not answer the door on principle. He never did. Mr Thomas never had visitors, for he lived by himself and had no friends, family, or acquaintances that might disturb him. Most anybody he could tolerate had long passed on, save for his wife, who had been rotting her brain away in a home for nearly two decades. And anyone he might consider a friend was probably still in the Highlands, weathering the gales and seaspray like the greying wood of the patio chair lost to the weeds of his backyard. And so, all suspects that could possibly remain were proselytisers, pranksters, or crooks.
Mr Thomas began the process of getting back into the proper mindset for his work. He slipped into the bathroom to see if he could urinate a little into the stained toilet, saving him the effort of getting up later. He never closed the door anymore, having no need for privacy. Only a few drips came. He read an article in Nature once about cancer. If a man should escape every other ailment and live to an old age, it said, statistically speaking, he would die of prostate cancer. Mr Thomas thought of this often. Did he piss too often or too little? Was the inevitable tumour already growing inside of him, or would something else get him first? It came to his mind every time he went to the bathroom, but met it with indifference; after all, the only real difference was a trivial bit of time all things considered.
It was only after re-lacing his steel-toed boots, refilling his glass with water, pulling up the threadbare chair tightly to the table, and refocusing the lamp that Mr Thomas was able to determine where he left off. If dressed correctly, the coils of the Round Turn Interlocking Shroud knot would appear simple to the amateur eye but those twisting ropes never fully betrayed the difficulty of remembering the correct order each strand threaded over, under, and through itself.
Knock, knock.
Again. Undoubtedly encouraged by the lights inside, the person outside the door might only be deterred if Mr Thomas made it very clear that he did, in fact, hear them but did not care.
“Go away,” said Mr Thomas, in a soft voice. His rule was not broken, he thought, as he had not spoken to himself but instead to the visitor. Making good use of his boots, he adopted a new approach and made extra effort to stomp his way to the tangle of blinds, which he turned quickly. His concentration shattered, Mr Thomas pushed in his chair, turned off the light, and returned his incomplete knot to its less complex natural state. After putting on a kettle for tea, he made his way to the dark living room and sank into his old armchair in the corner. A stranger might suggest that the sofa might be better positioned to see the television, but several lengths of blue-and-orange striped climbing rope Mr Thomas had found at a yard sale years ago now lay coiled on the seat. Moving the television never occurred to him, for this was the arrangement his wife preferred. As for the darkness, he did not bother changing the lightbulbs; the flickering light of the set usually illuminated enough to eat. Involuntarily, his leg began to bounce.
A letter sat on the coffee table, unopened. Two years ago, Mr Thomas received it from his sister in hospice. Every other letter he received met the curious flames of hearth, but this letter felt glued to the table. Just as he had forgotten about it, the kettle began to murmur, threatening to scream.
“Alright, alright!” he said, raising his hands. Again, Mr Thomas quickly assured himself that his rule was not broken, for he spoke not to himself but instead to the kettle. With a cup of Earl Grey in hand (no sugar, a little milk, and paired with the type of sugared shortbread cookie found in round tins layered on little paper cups), Mr Thomas finally turned his attention to the television and the four fuzzy channels it received by coat hanger. With a click and a hum, the sound slowly came into focus. A moustached man, looking vaguely uncomfortable in an oversized suit appeared on the curved screen.
“-and these people, our uncivilised brothers and sisters, they still have no way to receive the good news. And all we’re trying to do is save them.”
The camera shifted to the interviewer, a balding fellow in a tweed suit. There was something pinned on his lapel, indistinguishable in the fuzz of the poor reception. An ethereal, serious voice, then:
“The Sentinelese have never been contacted peacefully. Why do you believe that your attempts will go differently?”
“Well, we have God on our side,” the moustachioed man offered, and the rest of his sentence blurred into inarticulate half-sounds as Mr Thomas’ mind became occupied with a monolithic thought that wedged its way into his mind like a stone trapped deep in the tread of a tyre: Why go to such lengths just to tell someone that they were going to hell? His tea, already forgotten among its half-empty peers on the side table, had started to go cold.
Knock, knock.
One knock is normal enough, thought Mr Thomas, sinking back in his armchair. Two knocks were no more than a nuisance. But three knocks over the course of five minutes? A long moment of silence proceeded as Mr Thomas carefully thought through how he would rid himself of the interloper. Had he forgotten some rare appointment made months ago? No, it had to be someone else. Visions of wild possibilities flitted about in his mind, each appearing more disturbing than the last. Could a lost child be looking to use the telephone? Maybe one of those serial killers the TV went on about stood there, just one two-inch door away. Worse still, it might be those damned Jehovah’s Witness people. Flexing his jaw muscles, Mr Thomas assured himself with the unchangeable fact that nobody could be at the door if he didn’t answer it.
Still, the thoughts persisted. And then, all of a sudden, he had it. The most simple answer if all was the very one he’d overlooked for so long: The very act of answering the door would materialise the knocker in the same way that the observation of Schrödinger’s cat bound its state to a single outcome. Someone was simultaneously at the door and not at the door, and for Mr Thomas, that was good enough.
Knock, knock.
Startled from his reverie, Mr Thomas sat up, struggling against the recliner mechanism in his armchair. This visitor could not be ignored. Most would have given up by now. Only one thing could be done, and it always ended in worse outcomes. He learned this lesson a long time ago. When Mr Thomas was little Randy Thomas, he was driven by curiosity to find out whether the light in the refrigerator went out when the door closed. To unravel this mystery, Randy waited until his mother took his sister Fran to her swimming lesson before he set to work carefully unpacking the contents of the fridge onto the floor and, with some effort, managed to remove the metal shelving. He climbed in, scrunched himself up against the wall, and pulled the door closed with a click. It was true, he had found out; the light inside a fridge does indeed turn off when the door is closed. What is also true, however, is that he did not escape the frigid confines of the refrigerator until his mother came home two hours later to the sight of fruits, vegetables, egg and milk cartons, and leftover ham on the linoleum, baking in the afternoon sun. Inside the fridge, she found a shivering Randy, too tired and distraught to cry whatsoever. Even now, Mr Thomas could still remember his father chuckling behind his copy of the New York Times.
“Climbed in Pandora’s box, did we?”
Mr Thomas got up, grasped the fraying arm of his favourite armchair, and turned it to face the door.
Knock, knock.
In his heart of hearts, Mr Thomas knew what came next. Bathed in a cold sweat, he simply knew that another knock was imminent. Dread, like icy water, pooled into his boots and crept up his legs and around his stomach, which began to bubble with hot bile. It was the worst feeling he had ever experienced; this overwhelming knowledge that something waited for him outside the door–and no matter what he did, he could not escape it.
“Away, away!” he thought loudly. “Go away!” Simultaneously knowing and not knowing ate him from the inside like the fire ate his mail, tendrils of fear tickling his brain, threatening to warp and curl every surety he held, every truth he knew. And so it was with great bravery that Mr Thomas crept up to the door and placed his shaking palms against the peeling paint of the door, waiting to feel the being on the other side through the vibrations.
Knock, knock.
In a small, triumphant act, Mr Thomas put his hand on the knob and broke his highest rule, the rule he had observed ritualistically for the last sixteen years: he turned the door handle of his front door and opened it, just a crack. Outside, a uniformed man stood under the porch light, holding a large rectangular bag at his side. A moth bumped against the lightbulb.
“Hello, pizza delivery.”
Mr Thomas slowly shook his head.
“It’s from your neighbours, across the street,” he gestured behind him. “All paid for.” Unzipping his bag, he produced a pizza box and held it forward, waiting.
“…Are you alright, sir?”
Mr Thomas nodded once.
“I’ll just leave this here, then,” said the lad, placing the box on the top stair and backing away. “Have a good night.”
The visitor, having completed another ordinary transaction, slipped back into the darkness and was gone.
“Thank you,” said Mr Thomas, although there was nobody to hear him.
WENSUM 