There’s somebody at the door, Dennis.
Dennis Johnson startled awake. He jolted upright in bed and placed a hand on his thumping chest. His heart was pounding a mile a minute and he was completely drenched in sweat. He reached over to the other side of the bed, feeling for the comfort of his sleeping wife, but came back with a handful of empty sheets. She must already be awake, he thought. He looked over at the alarm clock and saw it was just after 5am, her usual wake up time. Sue had always been an early riser, ever since college. It used to be 6am, but gray hair shaved off another hour.
He kept his hand pressed against his chest and breathed slowly, waiting for his pulse to return to normal. After a few moments, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. He heard the clattering of dishes, slippered feet shuffling on the linoleum floors, coffee beans plinking and tumbling into the metal grinder. He heard a click and the radio started jabbering away. He knew the next sound would be the high-pitched whine of the coffee grinder, followed by the fizzle of the electric kettle. The daily cacophony that he had come to expect over five decades of marriage. His mind wasn’t what it wasn’t used to be, but these smells and noises were in the deep place, where things were chiseled into granite. He always felt solid in the morning. Evenings, on the other hand, had gotten slippery.
He reached over and touched the pillow where he was sleeping moments earlier. It was damp, almost wet. Sue wouldn’t be too happy with him. Limited budget these days, she’d tell him. Every dollar counts. She’d talk to him in that odd, detached way, as if she was lecturing one of their children about reckless financial decisions. She’d talk to him like she was the one breaking her back for fifty years at the factory. She’d talk to him like she managed the bills, though he was pretty sure she couldn’t even find the checkbook. He envisioned a good fight somewhere down the road, but he’d let her ring the starting bell.
No need to borrow trouble.
He stood up, every joint popping and cracking at once and trying to relieve a night’s worth of stiffness. He attempted a stretch but his muscles were sore, as if he’d run a marathon in his sleep. He felt a twinge in his back that told him if he bent over to stretch, he’d spend the entire day staring at the floor. As he jammed his feet into his slippers, he surveyed his side of the bed. It was dark with sweat from top to bottom. He imagined that underneath, the mattress was soaked through and a large human-shaped stain was forming, just like every used mattress he’d ever seen on the side of the road. He cringed thinking about what Sue would say.
Still, no need to borrow trouble.
Dennis was still feeling spooked. At first, he couldn’t even recall what he had been dreaming about. He knew it must have been a doozy to get him all worked up and soaking through the mattress in the dead of New England winter, here in a house where the thermostat never went above sixty degrees. As he strained to remember, a scene came into focus. He was sitting at the table talking to his wife. He couldn’t recall what they were talking about or more importantly, why it was so frightening. As he tried to remember, the details faded. The color drained from the picture, leaving behind dusty sepia tones and frayed edges. As the image faded, a simple declaration rang through the darkness, clear as a bell.
There’s somebody at the door, Dennis.
Hearing the words again sent a fresh bolt of lightning rushing through his spine. His jaw clenched and his eyes shot open wide. Even though he was awake, his brain was operating from the dream place, where things aren’t quite as they seem and otherwise innocuous things can have deep, entrenched meaning. Where a few simple words can strike terror in the heart of a grisled old man.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to force his rational brain to take over again. He felt his nerves twitching. Gooseflesh on his arms bristling against the chilly morning air. Almost daring himself, he said the words aloud.
“There’s somebody at the door, Dennis.”
He looked in the mirror and chuckled at his reflection.
What the hell could be so scary about somebody at the door? He disliked unwanted visitors as much as the next guy. Usually it was some Mormon trying to spread the word. But hey, sometimes it was a little girl selling cookies. There were worse things in the world than surprise cookies.
For a minute or two he leaned against the doorway of the bedroom, collecting himself. At last, demons fully exorcized, he headed downstairs.
When he got to the kitchen, morning was in full swing. The kettle hissed and bubbled, then beeped with an urgency most fitting. Time for caffeine, the only addiction we proudly support. Ask ten people to choose between their coffee or their spouse, and someone’s going to end up in the paper.
Sue was emptying a large stainless steel stock pot, and the deluge of soapy water competed with the yakkety-yak of the morning radio for loudest noise in the room. Dennis hated the shock jocks, with their ridiculous put-on voices, stale jokes, and uninformed opinions on complex issues. He had listened to those shows every morning on his way to work. He didn’t like them, but they distracted from the long day ahead. The day he retired was the last day he listened. He would rather listen to the sound of water boiling. Or nothing at all. As he had gotten long in the tooth, he saw most things for what they were. Meaningless distractions. Especially nowadays.
In his day, people used to tell stories. Like the ancient people who sat around the campfire and kept each other entertained. Over time, it evolved into theater and books. Then radio shows. Then movies. It was a glorious time for storytelling. But then sometime around the turn of the millennium, the goddamn thing went off the rails. A wrecking ball called reality television destroyed the concept of storytelling. Rich housewives bitching and moaning about their charmed lives while lounging in their overly extravagant mansions now qualified as top-notch entertainment.
A few years later, a virus called “social media” spread like wildfire. Something called “influencers” climbed out of the rubble. People stopped telling stories. They started making “content.” Even worse, people stared at their phones all day. Watching normal people do normal people things. Watching them open packages. Watching them play video games. Watching them watch other people. Turtles all the way down. He honestly wasn’t surprised at all. Disappointed, but not surprised. Most folks just wanted something to wash over them. Something to help distract them from their meaningless little lives.
Sue stood at the sink, finishing up the dishes. She had on long yellow rubber gloves and was staring absently out the window as she wiped each dish with a sponge and placed it carefully on the rack. Her hands moved slowly and deftly, not a motion wasted. After all these years she didn’t need to pay much attention. She scrounged around for any lost sailors, then pulled the plunger and the murky water began to gurgle down the drain.
“Morning, hun. Coffee’s on,” she greeted him absently.
She spoke without turning around. He didn’t mind. Neither of them were particularly congenial until after their first cup of coffee. Until then, she listened to the radio, he did the crossword, and they communicated through a series of grunts and hand gestures. Any pretense that had once existed between them had long since fallen by the wayside. Fifty years, remember. They loved each other deeply, but also felt comfortable enough to say, “leave me alone until I’ve had my coffee.”
If only all relationships were so honest.
Sue picked up a towel and dried the gravy boat, staring out the small window above the sink. The morning was dull and light had barely started to filter through the trees. Long shadows stretched across the snowy lawn. She had always hated the winter because of the short days. The snow didn’t bother her so much, even when they got a few feet in a single whack. But the dark mornings bothered her quite a bit. It was an odd feeling that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She loved a dark and rainy summer day. She loved curling up with a good book and sipping tea while the rain pitter-pattered away on the roof. But for some reason these dark winter days felt different.
Ominous.
Sue gazed out at nothing in particular, thinking warm thoughts on that cold January morning and pining for the days when she would wake to the morning sunlight warming her face. The sound of birds chirping and bees buzzing. Woodland creatures frolicking in the backyard. She enjoyed waking and feeling like the world was already turning.
She especially didn’t like how the backyard looked in the early winter morning, before the first cup of coffee. It looked like a cemetery. A shiver went down her spine. Poor choice of words, maybe. But that’s how she felt. And just as her eyes noticed something in the back corner of the yard, Dennis startled her back to reality.
“Morning,” he said, kissing the back of her head.
She jumped, and knocked the gravy boat into the sink with a clatter.
“Ah, Christ,” she muttered, retrieving the gray boat and giving it another cursory polish with the drying towel. “You gave me a fright. I was just daydreaming about summer. It looks so dreary out there.”
“Mmm,” he grunted. But he wasn’t paying attention. He was sitting at the kitchen table, toying idly with the salt and pepper shakers. He stared blankly into the distance. When she slid a steaming mug of coffee onto the table in front of him, he grabbed the handle and spun the mug around.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
She looked him over closely for the first time that morning. He wasn’t usually what you would call perky first thing in the morning, but Sue could tell something was off. He wasn’t doing the crossword, his usual routine. The newspaper sat folded on the table behind him. He was clutching his coffee mug tightly in both hands as if holding on for dear life. She could see a large yellow ring of sweat drying on his white undershirt. She stepped behind him and massaged his shoulders, gently kneading the knotty muscle fibers underneath. She looked down at her hand and smudges of dirt appeared on fingers. She wiped them on her apron, then walked around the table and regarded him. His eyes looked red and glassy as he stared intently into his coffee. She thought today might be one of the bad days.
“Sleep okay, hun?” she pried gently.
“Mmm,” he grunted again.
He was still staring into his coffee with blank eyes.
She figured he just needed a minute to wake up. She went back to her morning chores. She finished up the dishes and started sweeping, stealing sips of coffee in between. He sat, staring into his coffee, not speaking. She swept, growing increasingly concerned and watching him out of the corner of her eye.
Eventually, his deep voice cut through din.
“Ever dream a dream so real it scares the bejesus out of you?” he said calmly.
She stopped sweeping and put the broom aside. She let out a whoosh of air and realized she had been holding her breath.
“Had a nightmare, did you?” she asked. “I hate that.”
“Woke up with my chest pounding like hell,” he continued, “thought I was having another heart attack. But it was just the dream. Scared me shitless, I tell ya.”
She hesitated. Marriage had taught her, sometimes you need to talk, other times you need to listen. Something about the way he was talking made the hair on her arms stand up, but she didn’t want to make things worse. Her intuition told her this might be the time for listening. She let him talk it out.
“Oh?” she prompted.
“It’s coming to me now. Dribs and drabs. It was a morning like any other. We were sitting at the table. Same as every morning. Except for, I had this feeling in my gut. A bad one.”
She resisted the urge to walk over and put her arms around him. To hold him close. Something told her not to interrupt him. Something told her to let him finish. Some feeling in her gut.
He continued.
“I was reading the paper. Bridge collapsed in New Hampshire. Remember the front page now, clear as day. Looked like someone had poured hot lava on the bridge and burned a hole straight through. Looked like the concrete was melting into the river below.”
Her eyes darted to the newspaper lying on the countertop, folded and banded just as the paperboy had left it. She took a few steps towards it.
He continued.
“Cars fell into the stream and floated down the river like boats. People and cars clustered on either side of the hole. A whole truckload of bananas turned over. Looked like the hole might swallow them up.”
She casually slid the newspaper off the counter and walked into the pantry, just out of his eyeline. She slid off the elastic band and placed it around her left wrist, just as she did every morning. She unfolded the paper. She dropped it to the floor, took two steps back, and clutched her hands to her mouth. A small wheeze escaped, the sound of a mouse sneezing.
Only a small bit was sticking up above the fold, but she could already make it out, like seeing the top row of a jigsaw puzzle. Trees and suspension cables. The river. The outline of the city in the background. She picked up the paper and slowly unfolded the front page. The photo slapped her across the face.
People and cars strewn about.
Bananas everywhere.
The gaping maw.
He continued.
“It’s all coming back now. So I’m reading about this collapse in the newspaper, drinking my coffee, the usual. I go out to the car to warm it up and notice something’s off. The front left bumper is buckled and there’s a big dent in the hood. Headlight hanging out of the socket. Looks like I hit a deer. Something dark all over the front of the car.”
Sue was staring at the bridge, mouth agape. He had described it with such clarity and precision it was almost as if he had taken the picture himself. Her brain was unable to process what was happening or, more importantly, what to do next. All she knew was that she had a bad feeling, and it was getting worse by the second.
He continued.
She listened.
“So, I’m looking at the car and I notice more stuff smeared on the back. Figured I must have hit the deer and he slid down the length of the car. But then, I see handprints on the trunk. And I freeze. The feeling in my gut gets worse. But I can’t stop myself. I just watch my hand move closer and closer to the latch. It’s definitely blood, I realize.”
Sue was feverishly wringing a dishtowel back and forth, unaware she was doing it. She had sort of blacked out for a minute. She was pacing from one end of the pantry to the other, listening, but not quite hearing. When she heard the word blood, she snapped out of it. The feeling in her gut was getting worse. What had started as a tingle now felt like a stabbing pain. Without thinking, she reached down and began to hug her stomach as she paced back and forth across the linoleum.
“So I’m getting closer and closer to the latch, and I’m so scared about what’s inside I start to weep. But I can’t control my hands.”
Sue stopped pacing.
She was listening again, and she didn’t like what she was hearing.
“In my head I’m crying out, begging not to open it. Over and over again. Louder and louder. But they keep going in slow motion towards the trunk. Now I’m literally screaming, but trapped inside my head. And there’s blood all over the trunk.”
She glanced over at the small window over the kitchen sink, overlooking the driveway. The car would be parked there as normal, she told herself. The bridge was a fluke. All she had to do was walk back ten paces over to the sink, get up on her tiptoes, and she’d see the car was there. Undamaged. Nothing to worry about. But she was frozen. Her legs wouldn’t move. The cramp in her stomach worsened. She doubled over in agony, clutching herself.
Bad dreams are only dreams, she told herself.
What about the bridge?
Her brain knew better.
Bad dreams are only dreams.
She repeated it over and over, like a mantra.
Only dreams. Only dreams. Only dreams.
He continued.
“So the trunk opens and I finally get control of my hands. I cover my eyes. I can’t bear to look. But then something pries ’em apart and makes me look.”
He paused and looked up.
“Guess what was inside?”
He stared at her with intense eyes.
She repeated her mantra.
“Nothing. Can you believe it? Just an old shovel. Don’t know what I was expecting. Jesus I’m getting myself all freaked out talking about it again. Gave myself goosebumps, tell you what. Haven’t felt that scared since I was a little kid coming home after dark, sprinting up the steps so the monsters didn’t get me.”
He sipped his coffee and chuckled.
“Imagine that. All over some goddamn dream.”
She had stopped listening. She desperately needed to look out the window. She had to see the car with her own eyes, to make sure it was only her mind playing tricks on her. It was only a dozen paces to the window, but she couldn’t move. She was standing in the pantry, frozen. She felt exactly like he had felt in the dream. Her brain was screaming at her, but her limbs wouldn’t listen.
He was still staring into his coffee. He didn’t see her huddling over his shoulder, arms wrapped around herself. Trembling.
He continued.
“So… I come back inside. You’re standing over there doing the dishes as you always do. I’m sitting here, doing the crossword like I always do. Your phone starts beeping and booping, like it always does. And meanwhile, Billy Joel was on the radio singing about how Only the Good Die Young. I remember thinking, ain’t that the truth? Even though I’m pretty sure that whole song is about him trying to get laid. Isn’t that funny? How we don’t really think about stuff like that?”
She didn’t think anything was funny, not now. She was laser-focused on the window above the sink. Slowly, her feet started to move. At first, her feet shuffled along methodically like a bride walking down the aisle, milking each step for all its worth. After a few steps she was in an all out sprint. She stopped short in front of the sink and sent the mat flying out from under her feet. She caught herself on the sink, just barely, and managed to stay on her feet.
The picture window over the kitchen sink window was high to begin with, and the snow covering the hedges made it even harder to see across the backyard to the driveway. She got up on her tip-toes, craned her neck, and stretched as far as it would go. She kept going until she felt something go pop.
Finally, a clear view.
The car was parked in the driveway. The headlights were fine. The hood and bumper seemed fine. The usual dings and dents but otherwise undamaged.
See? Nothing. You got in your head again, Sue.
But then she noticed something. Something smeared on the side of the car. Something dark. The tendons in her ankles finally cried out for relief and she rocked back on her heels.
That wasn’t blood. It’s winter time. Roads are full of sand and slush. Normal crap that accumulates every winter. Snow goblins, as mom would call them. Haven’t had a carwash since the fall.
Just then, her phone beeped.
No reason to be concerned.
She barely registered it. She was still trying to process what was going on.
What about the bridge?
Trying to convince herself that it wasn’t blood.
It sure looked like blood.
She tried to push the bad thoughts out of her head.
Bad dreams are only dreams.
She tried to calm herself down, but someone was barraging her with texts. Her phone beeped once. Then again. Then again. A full-blown assault. She decided to see what the heck was going on.
Her hands were shaking badly. She couldn’t punch in the code to unlock her phone. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and tried again. It worked.
Anne, their neighbor, had sent her seventeen text messages. She looked at the texts and scanned them up and down frantically trying to glean information.
Anne had started texting just after midnight. She was looking for her husband. Paul was going out for beers with Dennis. But he never came home. Anne kept up the barrage of texts all through the night. The latest batch came through just now at 6:30 in the morning. She was demanding that Sue wake up.
Anne was calling the cops. Seventeen texts. Missing husband.
It sure looked like blood.
She remembered Dennis leaving last night.
Why don’t I remember him coming home?
Sue started to hyperventilate.
She stretched up and looked out the window again.
The sun was starting to peek through the trees.
The car was definitely covered in something.
Then she saw something near the trunk.
A handprint.
“Dennis?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He kept staring into his coffee.
She was still looking out the window. Something caught her eye in the far corner of the backyard. Way in the back, near the property line. Something had disturbed the otherwise smooth coating of snow in the backyard.
Someone had dug a hole.
“Dennis?”
Just then, a cruiser pulled up. Then another. Four men with guns, talking to each other and pointing. They were pointing at the station wagon. The one Dennis was driving last night.
“Dennis?”
Sue looked on helplessly.
It sure looked like blood.
She felt something in her brain pop. It crackled with static electricity, then finally gave way to a loud ringing in her ears. She felt the room start to spin as if she was drunk on too many margaritas. She watched as two men in long coats approached her car and pointed out the handprint.
It sure looked like blood.
She watched as they popped the trunk of the car and pulled out a shovel.
She watched as they drew their weapons.
She watched as they circled around the house towards their front door.
Now it felt like she was in a dream.
She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t speak.
She looked over at Dennis.
He was calmly doing the crossword.
He didn’t notice the photo of the collapsed bridge on the front page.
He didn’t hear her phone beeping.
He didn’t hear Billy Joel lamenting that catholic girls start much too late.
She looked him over more closely.
His fingernails were dirty.
Not dirt. Blood.
He finally looked up.
The next words she spoke did not come from her.
They came from the dream place.
She looked him right in the eye.
“There’s somebody at the door, Dennis.”
THE END.
