The Turn

"So, I think we have decided on a two-tier cake instead of three," Danielle says, pausing to take a sip of her steaming tea, straight out of the kettle, ‘with her asbestos mouth,’ as Elena says. Said.

"Really, darling? You are nothing like your mother, are you?" I laugh, sipping my own milky, sugary concoction.

"Which one?" She winks, holding my mug up to shield her face as I snort.

"Both of us," I answer with a quick glance at the empty table in front of us. I should have a plate of biscuits here, but that would require shopping, something I am arduously avoiding.

"I just don't want it to be a huge deal, mum." Danielle sighs, putting her mug down and clenching her fingers in a fist, enabling them to pop and click consecutively. She then turns her head to both sides, and I can hear the sickening pop of bubbles. A habit from when she was a child that she could never seem to kick, one that terrified Elena and me. Elena would always tap Danielle on the head, and I'm almost tempted to do the same, but the act never suited me as it did Elena.

"Darling," I drawl, trying to give her a pleading look. She laughs, so I don't believe it's working. "This is your wedding day! Hopefully, your only one! It's meant to be a big deal."

"For you and mum maybe, but for Edgar and me, it's just another day." She shrugs.

I tut at her, "the reason mine and your mother's wedding day was so special was because we were two women from conservative families, and we wanted to...what do the young people say...go big or go home?"

"You had a horse and carriage!"

"The elephants were unavailable that day."

She snorts into her tea, making me snort into mine, and suddenly we're both curled into ourselves, the table shaking dangerously with our laughter. Danielle looks so much like Elena when she laughs. Well, it's not a laugh, more like a witches hooting cackle. The resemblance makes my chest burn.

Finally, the laughter stops with a few happy sighs as we sip our teas again.

Danielle sighs, looking at the table, and I know she's thinking about the lack of biscuits. "Your fridge was empty."

"I've been meaning to do a shop," I said quickly, "you know me, just distracted."

"Have you been visiting your book club?"

"Haven't read the latest one, some historical romance, not really my scene."

She smiles amicably, "have you been sleeping?"

I gulp. Sleep. The thing about forty-eight years of marriage is that you never sleep alone, and for the last few months, that's all I had been doing. I had grown used to Elena's noises, her warmth in an otherwise cold bed. To go from that to silence, to loneliness. Sleep evaded me.

"Of course, I have, like a log. Anyway, I thought I was the mother here!"

Danielle smiles affectionately and reaches out to take my hands. "I just want you to be okay, mum."

"I'm always okay, my darling. Always. Now," I clap my hands excitedly and watch as she drags hers back across the table, "let's plan your wedding!"

*

It's the nights that are the hardest. I thought I would grow accustomed to the isolation. Danielle, our only child, is engaged and living her life. Her weekly visits are a great comfort to me, she even offered for me to stay with her, spare bedroom and everything, but the idea of leaving this house, Elena's last home, was intolerable to me. Danielle, in the place, gives life to it again, hearing her putter about with the kettle, humming to herself, and it's nice not being alone for those few hours. But I have grown accustomed to her absence as much as she has outgrown me, and it's never long before the inevitable happens, and I am alone again.

The place became so incredibly hollow when Elena passed; being alone in an old rickety house, every single sound is analysed right to the last decibel. What was that thud downstairs? Was something just giving in to gravity, or was someone there? What about that creak at the end of the corridor? Floorboards exerted to old age or someone there wielding a knife waiting for me? This level of paranoia is new to me, but I am learning fast.

The thing about living in a house full of people is that you can ignore any sound that seems untoward. That creak you hear is just someone going downstairs to grab a glass of water or relieve themselves in the bathroom. You know those creaks; you know those noises that ooze out of these for walls.

It's like the French saying, Jamais Vu? I know this house, I see this home, I know every creaky floorboard, every rickety window, and door. But I am looking at it now, I live in it now, and it's unfamiliar to me, a threat.

Now, my nights remain a constant vigil because no house is silent if you listen hard enough.

*

I stare at the ceiling, ears pricked, listening intently, arms crossed over me like a mummy in a sarcophagus. I look at Elena's side and lean in, pressing my face to her pillow, trying to find her scent in the freshly washed sheets. I need to force myself to sleep, force my brain to just stop, if only for a few hours, maybe I should call the doctors in the morning. Get some pills for it. I force my eyes shut, clenched so tight that I can see pops of lights and hexagonal shapes behind my lids.

Creeeaaakkkkk

My eyes shoot open, heart jumping as I turn my head towards our bedroom door. Nothing, I run through the events before bed, doors locked, windows shut and bolted. Pipes, it must have just been the pipes. I scoffed and tucked myself back in and closed my eyes again.

Creeeeeeaaakkkk

I shoot up in bed, back rod stiff as I bring the sheets to my chin, shielding myself like a child. I watch the door looming menacingly as I wait with bated breath.

Creeeeaaaaaakkkk

I want to reach out to my phone, call the police, call Danielle; she won’t mind, but I can’t. I can’t reach out, can not disturb the oppressive silence that surrounds me, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck, goosebumps erupting on my arms. My muscles are tense as a cold wave embalmed me. I wanted Elena-

Creeeeaaaakkkk

I know that floorboard

Creeeeaaaaakkkkk

That's the floorboard at the top of the stairs.

Creeeeaaaakkkkk

Someone is standing there, tilting back and forth on their feet, as if debating what room they should go in first. I just know it; I am as certain as I am that the sun rises and sets. Someone is standing at the bottom of my corridor. Wondering if they should walk forward.

A figure shrouded in darkness; their features hard to be certain of. A living shadow, something that flickers in peripheral vision. Are they tall? Thin? Humanoid? Or are they just shadows dancing in the dark?

Have they realised how loud the floorboard was? Are they standing there, motionless, listening for any movement from me just as keenly as I am listening for them?

Creeeeeaaaakkkk Creeeeaaaakkkk Creeeeaaaaakkkkk

Whoever is there, whatever is there, doesn't remain there for much longer. No, now I can hear the unmistakable tread of footsteps down the corridor.

I can't move. My legs are anchored down by shackles, my clothes dragged down by rocks in their pockets, pulling me deeper and deeper into the murky depths, drowning me. My chest is burning, my left arm tight, almost stopping my breath- all I can hear are my whimpers, my breathing fraught with unshed tears of fear as I lie there in wait.

I'll just lie here and let them take what they want and call the police once they leave. If I don’t fight it, then it will be over quickly. But they aren't going to other rooms. I can't hear any doors opening. They are slowly, deliberately walking towards my bedroom. I can't get up. I need to get up.

They are outside my door. They stay there for a long, never-ending minute as if deliberating. I can hear their weight on the floorboards, but I can't hear them breathe. Why are they not coming in? Why are they just standing there-

Slowly, so painfully slowly, the door handle begins to turn.

I get up. I don't know how, but my stomach twists, hard. I'm sweating; I register a burning sensation in my ankle from getting up so abruptly in a surge of adrenaline I didn't know I was capable of.

But I clutch the handle with both hands as I try to match the other person's strength. My hands are so slippery, sweaty and I can feel it twitch up and down, again and again, and again, but I'm stopping it. It tries to turn against with a relentless effort that speaks of unerring determination.

I want to call the police, but my phone is so far away, and I can't let go of the door.

I don't know how much time passes; my ankle flares in searing pain, and the tug on the handle is ceaseless. The handle still squeezed between my throbbing palms, holding on for dear life.

I don't know how much time passes. I turn quickly to look at my window as I feel the handle keep turning in my palms. The sun is rising, slicing through my window, giving it a tangerine glow.

Then, the pressure on the handle vanishes.

My palm stings with phantom pains, still clutching the handle in disbelief.

It no longer tries to turn. There is no sound from outside, no footsteps leading away, no one running down the stairs to escape. The house is just silent, so blessedly silent. But I don't want to let go. What if they are still there and just waiting for me to let down my guard so they can swallow me whole.

I want Elena, I need to call Danielle, but I am also so tired, so pressingly tired that I almost want to give in, let them do what they want, and to sink into the fear and let it carry me.

I let go.

I let go of the handle and wait.

Nothing happens.

I look at the handle, brassy and still, no turns, no adversary on the other side trying to force themselves in.

I need to open the door.

My hands are tingly, a prickly sensation, a nagging pain spreading across the palms. I want to reach out and open the door, to step out into my home, but is it my home anymore? Or is it just another space where I feel unsafe, poisoned, and turned against me, each corner sharp, each shadow malicious. Imagine having your home turned against you, the one place you feel safe turned inside out.

I can't open the door. I won't open up the door.

I walk to the bedside drawer and dial 999.

*

"Here you are, mum." Danielle hands me a hot cup of tea, the warmth seeping into my cold hands; the pain a distant pang. The numbness went away once Danielle came in; she had to coerce me from my room, but I wouldn't leave, not until she and the two police officers did a thorough search of every crevice of the house.

The officers sit in front of us now, on the table where Danielle and I were sitting and chatting away idly yesterday. They are young; one has a kind face, delicate features, and a nice fringe framing their face. The other's look is stern, with hard lines on her forehead and around her eyes, pursed lips. Like she has been through hell. She doesn't have a fringe.

"Mrs Rai," Fringe begins, "can you please describe to me what happened last night?"

I feel Danielle's warmth next to me as she perches on the sofa arms like an overprotective bird, "I was in bed, and I heard creaking noises, and I know this house is old but, I heard, footsteps, on my landing, and then they came towards my door and tried to get in, I held the door shut with my hands until they -"

When they had walked in, they did a thorough search. Checked all the windows, the latches. Checked if there was anyone in the loft, hidden in any rooms but nothing. Almost as if I had imagined it.

Had I imagined it?

"Well, there were no signs of breaking and entering Mrs. Rai. Do you think you may have left your door unlocked -" Fringe begins again.

"I told you, I didn't hear the door opening. I would have heard my front door opening-"

"Do you leave your key anywhere anyone could get in-" Fringe tries again

"I told you, I didn't hear the door opening. I would have heard my front door opening-"

"I never leave my door unlocked."

The police officers hum and nod in either understanding or as if humouring me; I can't be sure.

"Do you happen to leave a spare key anywhere for emergencies?"

Spare Key. Spare Key? Elena has a spare key. A spare key under the flowerpot. I didn't even think about the spare key when she died. Do people think about spare emergency keys when someone else dies? I paused too long, and they noticed. Did someone use my key? But I didn't hear my door!

"There's a key under the flowerpot," I whisper in defeat; the officers lean back in unison as if to say, case closed.

Danielle puts her hand on my shoulder, and I want to shake it off.

"Mum, do you reckon someone could have used your key?"

"You guys do not understand what I'm saying. I didn't hear the door open!"

"But Mrs Rai, there were no signs of forced entry from anywhere."

"There was someone in my house!"

"We understand that Mrs Rai-"

"I don't think you do -" The tea sloshes as I slam it down onto the table, I can feel Danielle flinching, and I can imagine her rolling her eyes and pressing her delicate fingers to her temple in embarrassment.

"My home has just been violated, I had someone in my house try to get into my room, and no one is taking this seriously!"

"Mrs Rai, we are taking this seriously, and we have made notes; we have checked every inch of this house, and we have made notes on this case. We will leave you a case number here."

She hands me a small piece of paper with four miscellaneous digits, one that I know I am going to lose straight away.

"If there is any form of a disturbance, call 111 and quote those digits, and someone will be able to look up your record."

"Perfect, getting someone to look up my details gives the intruder a perfect time frame to murder me-"

"Mum!"

"If you are in any immediate danger, then please call 999." No Fringe finally speaks.

"We have done a safety check of your house, and everything seems in order; nothing has been taken or moved. You know who to contact should you need anything, and we do recommend you change the locks on your door." Fringe says, smiling.

"No one walked in through the door." I sound out, and suddenly I want them to leave, but I also want them to stay.

"Thank you, officers," I say finally, "for coming out and looking around for me." They stand up, tall and powerful; Fringe says, "It's not a problem, happy to help." No fringe just nods briskly. Danielle gets up, wraps her nightgown around herself tightly, and escorts them out of the house. I just sit there, looking at the spilled tea staining the table.

*

The tell-tale signs of the evening came again, the smattering of darkness against the countertops, the streetlights flickering and yawning with noise. My stomach begins twinging, my throat parched. I've been jumping at shadows all day; every single curve or trick of the light I think is something coming to get me; I feel like a child suffering from a nightmare. Danielle offered me a place at hers for the night, but I don't want to intrude on her and Edgar.

And also, I don't want to be scared of my and Elena's home. But it feels tainted as if it's no longer mine, the fervour, and affection I usually feel consumed with anxiety and my heart clenched in a fist. But this is my home, mine. Maybe losing Elena shook a couple of screws loose, and not everything is a threat.

I am tempted to take sleeping pills; maybe I would sleep through the night.

Maybe the anxiety from being alone makes me imagine things; maybe last night was just not a dream. I researched, I googled, but all that came up was paranormal phenomena or even sleep paralysis, and I know my body felt still, that I couldn't move, but that's not what this was. Someone was in my house. Maybe they're still there.

I need to sleep, get through this night, and it's going to be fine; last night didn't happen. Get through tonight, and then last night was a fluke—a trick of the light.

While pouring myself a glass of water from the tap, I look at the kitchen drawer, the one with the cutlery. Elena wouldn't hesitate. I open the drawer, hearing the wood grind as it opens, and I grasp the plastic of the knife handle, serrated and sharp. I hold it facing the floor as I traipse to bed.

*

I thought that when I went to sleep that night that that would be the end of it. There was no intruder; there couldn't have been. I changed the locks, changed the keys, and got rid of the emergency key, and I convinced Danielle that I would be alright on my own.

I feel like an invalid, a child, someone that cannot look after themselves.

I have added a lock to my own bedroom door to protect myself. From my own home.

As I lie in bed, the second night, a customary glance to Elena's side, I wait, keeping surveillance, a knife next to me on my bedroom drawer. It isn’t until 2 o'clock that I hear it again.

Until I hear the creaks, the steps, slow, monosyllabic, taunting as they make their way to my bedroom door. A looming figure of terror, waiting for me to make my move.

That is how I spend my nights now.

Night after night, I watch as the door fails to open as the new lock stands firm, as I sit, back taut, knife in my hand, watching. The second time it happened, I did what I was advised and called the police again. But when they knock on the door, the turning stops.

I don't know how long it takes for them to arrive, 30 minutes, 40? But as soon as they knock, the turning stops, as if it never happened in the first place.

I didn't want to leave my bed or my room again, but I knew if I didn't, the police officers would go, and I didn't want that either. So, I step onto the cold hard floor with trembling hands and unlock the door. No one. Nothing.

What happened next was identical to yesterday. Teas handed out. Danielle called and dragged out of her bed. The same placating sighs, but with less of a tolerance for the old lady. I got the impression that if I called again without substantial evidence, I would face consequences.

So, I don't, and for the last month, I have lain awake every night as whatever waits beyond my threshold tries with all its might to get in.

A month, exhausted, eyes dry and blurry, body heavy and stiff, mind in constant agony, borderline homicidal and insane. But what can I do?

Danielle tries to be understanding. She listens over tea and lets me stay with her. Those are the only nights I sleep a full eight hours. She offers me the spare room, and I want to say yes but, I can't leave Elena's home.

Even if it feels tainted, even if the feelings of fervour and affection I felt for these four walls have gone. Replaced by fear of shadows at every corner, and my heart clenched in a fist.

Tonight, I lie in bed, customary glance to Elena's side as I rub at my chest, trying to rub away the twinge. The twinges have been happening more often, but with the lack of sleep, lack of good health isn't going to surprise me.

Elena would not be scared of a turn of a handle, she would not be scared of an intruder, or she would be, but she would carry on anyway. It's one of the reasons I loved her.

I lie in bed, trying to convince myself to sleep a few winks before it starts, trying to recapture the lilting of her voice, the sound of her coughs. When -

Creeeeaaakkkkk

I blink and listen keenly, but the noise stops. Plumbing, just the plumbing. I breathe with apprehension or relief; I am not sure.

I can hear the whine of the pipes. I listen to the cars outside, distant and sparse, the endless flickering of the streetlights, every sudden noise making me shiver and my stomach leap. It is like thinking there is an extra step on a staircase but missing it and your foot falling through the air; it's that feeling of shock and surprise constantly.

I curl into Elena's side, trying to sleep, listening for any sound that would tell me I am not alone.

Creeeaaakkkkkk

Creeeeaaaakkkkk

No.

Creeeaaakkkkkk

Its on the landing

Creaaaakkkkkk

Slow, ominous.

Then, footsteps, heavy and methodical. I turn on my bedside lamp and take the knife, I've - never done this, I always just stay on my bed but- tonight I -

The knife is shaking in my hand as I hold it, point towards the door. I stand close to the door and wait as the footsteps get closer and closer. I can see pressure on the door handle, but they still had not realised that I had a lock, and they still won't leave me alone. I kept walking; I never realised the door was so far away. The door handle starts shaking violently, rattling and banging with such force I am concerned that it may fly off entirely. I shriek as the assault only gets worse.

"Who are you?" I shout, "WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

The handle does not stop turning, but now they're banging against the door, and I can hear the hinges struggle to brace themselves against the pummels. The banging gets louder and louder, and my legs are numb and shaky, and I can't breathe; my mouth is wide open as I try to breathe. Still, I can't, I can't and my chest, my chest hurts, it's burning, and my left arm is numb and- somethings wrong, somethings very wrong, I need Elena, I want Danielle and the banging won't shock, and I reach out feeling the lock turn as the assailant tries to get in. My ears are pulsing, and all I can hear are the turns of the handle as I fall to my knees and-

*

My eyes open as I flinch awake, gasping, my chest heaving, my feet numb, hands full of pins and needles, my stomach has leaped as if I was falling. I'm on the sofa, everything pitch black, it takes a while for my eyes to adjust to my surroundings, but I'm pretty sure I am in my living room. Did I fall asleep? I thought I went to bed. Did I? I heard noises, the intruder! I looked around quickly, checking my front door. Locked. Back door. Locked. windows locked and sealed, locks changed as the police suggested. Every nook and cranny checked repeatedly.

I start walking up the stairs, slowly, methodically, hearing the well-worn creaks of years passing, Danielle running up and down when she was little. They're so loud, but at least I know them well. I'm on the landing now, more creaks. As I reach the door to mine and Elena's room, it's locked. I turn the handle slowly, nothing, it won't budge, I try again, add more strength to it, nothing, it is jammed? I don't have a lock on here, surely? I try again, nothing, I start pushing, banging against the door, and I can - hear something - what is that in my bedroom? I can hear someone screaming - "WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" What the fuck- who is that in my bedroom?

I'm going to have to jimmy it with something, but it's starting to give, I can tell. Just one more PUSH-

The door falls through, and I see a body on the floor; my mouth is dry, and I touch my chest, the body's skin pale, wane, thinning out, knife glittering with the streetlights, just inches away from their fingertips. They're not breathing, their nose is not flaring, their chest isn't rising. But it's not a body, it's not just a body, it’s, me.

My spine is rod straight, rigid as I watch my lifeless body on the floor. The echo of pain in my chest, which I rub absent-mindedly, recollections of the past few days coming back to me like confetti, the creaking of the stairs, unable to get past the door, to me, to get to me-to save me from myself.

It's me on the floor, my knife away from my fingers. I am looking at my body, lying on the floor of mine and Elena's bedroom.

*

My eyes open as I flinch awake, gasping, my chest heaving.

*

My eyes open as I flinch awake, gasping, my chest heaving.

*

My eyes open as I flinch awake, gasping, my chest heaving.