Knock-knock

by Ron Wetherington

The knock on the cabin door is faint as Cynthia pours her cup of tea in the kitchen. Startled, she raises her head, pausing to listen more attentively. There it is again, knock-knock, cautious, hesitant. She stands motionless. It’s raining out, windy, just past dusk.

Who could it be? Not a neighbor, she’s certain. The nearest cabin is halfway down the mountain. No one knows where she is except Joan, who offered to let her stay here for the weekend to recover from her breakup with Corey. She needs to get away from him, his anger, his threats. He’s even stalking her!

Knock! Knock! A bit less hesitant, now. Cynthia senses a note of urgency in it. A traveler in distress? A lost soul on a chilly evening? She leaves her tea and moves towards the front room. The heavy pine door has no peephole, no sidelights. She switches on the porch light, leaving the room itself dark except for the flicker from the fireplace.

“Who’s there?” she calls out. No answer. The wind? Could anything be rattling against the porch?

“Hello?” Her voice is raised now. “Who is it?”

A window is set in the wall five feet away to the right. Cynthia quickly moves to it, holding the heavy drape aside as she peers out. The light barely illuminates the porch. She stares at the emptiness, the sweeping rain. The deep gray of late evening spreads beyond. The yard is almost invisible, the distant road in total darkness. She stretches to look back to her left. There is no one standing at the door! Cynthia’s skin prickles. She quickly draws the drapes together and moves to double-check the door. She locks and chains it, exhaling in relief, startled that she had left it unlocked.

Breathing rapidly now, she hugs herself against a sudden chill, her self-control threatening to unravel. The telephone on the kitchen wall suddenly rings. She hurries down the hallway.

“Hello?” The line crackles with static.

“Hello?”

More static, then a dial tone. Staring at the receiver, Cynthia slowly replaces it, struggling to make sense of everything.

Knock! Knock! It comes again from the front door, not visible from the kitchen. Frozen in fear, Cynthia clutches her mouth to still a scream. Breathing deeply now, desperate to regain her composure, she moves quietly to the kitchen drawer, opens it, and takes out a large chef’s knife. She turns off the kitchen light, pausing at the hallway entrance while her eyes adjust. She cautiously moves down the dark hall, her palms sweaty, grasping the knife more tightly.

The fire’s glow illuminates the front door. It’s now unchained! In terror, she suddenly realizes why the porch had been empty. The knocking had come from inside! Frantic, exposed in the hallway and shaking, she looks in disbelief as a dark figure approaches. Thick with panic, her knife-thrust is as forceful as it is frantic. The figure screams, crumpling to the floor.

Her heart racing, Cynthia flicks on the hall light, staring down into Corey’s fading anger, her knife in his chest, his own remaining clutched in his hand.

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Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology living in Dallas, Texas. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction pieces in this second career. He also enjoys writing creative non-fiction. Read some of his pubs HERE.