Knock Knock Knock – by Michelle C Jacobs

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.  I’m sitting in my office, editing my manuscript, and I don’t want to be disturbed.  Everyone knows this.  No one should be bothering me.  “Door’s open!” All I get is silence in return.  No knob turning.  No hellos.  No continued knocking.  Weird.  It mustn’t have been very important.  I shrug my shoulders and keep reading through the paragraphs, looking for typos.  I hate this part of the process.  My least favourite.  Typos are hard to catch when you have read the same stuff over and over again.  My brain starts correcting the words as I read them, and I miss the most obvious things.  Frustrating.

KNOCK.  KNOCK.  KNOCK.  That stops me reading.  I look up at the door.  Why have they interrupted a second time instead of only once?  “Come in!  The door is open!” I yell just a little bit louder than the last time.  Maybe they didn’t hear me the first time?  I glare at the door for what feels like an hour.  It doesn’t open.  No one turns the knob.  Silent and still.  The way my day is supposed to be going.  Frowning at the door, I briefly contemplate getting up to open it.  I’m not curious as to who is knocking.  I’m mad that they interrupt me by knocking and don’t come in.  Unsettling.

I don’t wait for them to come in.  I don’t get up to look.  I’ve got work to do, so I return to it.  I’m annoyed enough that my concentration seems to be better.  I pick out three typos on the page almost instantly.  I guess my brain is taking its frustration out on my typos rather than the absent knocker.  A positive side to the interruption.  Perhaps the knocker is someone trying to help me?  I almost laugh out loud at the ludicrous thought.  Who would know an interruption would be of assistance?  No one.  Not even me.

KNOCK.  KNOCK.  KNOCK.  The annoyance and frustration that was dwindling from the second round flourishes into actual anger.  What the hell?  I get up and briskly walk over to the door, making a show of grabbing the handle and yanking the door open.  “THE. DOOR. WAS. OPEN!” I yell out the door and into the knocker’s face.  Except, there is no face.  There is no one at the door.  I instinctively look down to see if I mistook the knocker’s height.  Nope.  Not even a footprint.  Stepping out into the hall, I scan both sides for anything out of place.  Someone hiding.  A door left ajar.  Nothing.  Not.  A.  Thing.

I go back to my desk, leaving the door slightly ajar.  If the knocker comes back, I want to see them.  I’m both angry and confused.  Which just makes me angrier.  I have a ton of work to get done today, and some asshat is trying to ruin my concentration.  Well.  They accomplished their task.  I’ve been pulled from mine for something stupid and nonsensical.  I sit back down and stare at the pile of pages in front of me.  I’m only into chapter three.  Thirty-two more to go with a two-week deadline.  Son-of-a…

I catch myself eyeing up the tablet.  There are three possible short stories I can write for some contests.  Those are always fun.  Brighten the mood.  They don’t even take that long to write.  I internally groan at the thought of going back to my typos.  Maybe I could just write a quick short?  It wouldn’t take long.  An hour or two to throw some bones down.  Get back in the groove of work.  I can afford an hour or two.  I know it.  Pushing the manuscript papers back on the desk, I set up the tablet and its keyboard.   “Only an hour or two,” I mutter to myself as I open the word processor.

KNOCK.  KNOCK.  KNOCK.  I freeze mid-word.  The door is closed.  I didn’t close it.  I purposefully left it ajar.  What the hell?  “Come in!  The door is unlocked!”  I yell at the door.  There is a quiver to my voice.  My heart is beating faster than normal.  Something weird is definitely going on.  In my head I really hope someone is going to walk in the room.  In my heart I know no one is there.  I know I didn’t close that door.  I know someone or something is toying with me.  But which?  The possibilities are endless, and my writer brain is being ruthless.  There isn’t a single thought I can hold on to.

Just as I am getting my heart rate back down to normal, the window flies open and a sharp wind whirls through the office.  My manuscript hops on for the ride and scatters all over the floor.  My heart almost stops.  Somehow it keeps going, and I am alive.  I close the window, noting the latch is damaged and barely hanging on.  That would explain the way it opened in the horrible winds outside.  I then take to the task of picking up my manuscript.  Carefully stacking each page in numerical order.  I sure am glad I remembered to number the pages.

Heart calm, manuscript back on the desk, and a large glass of water drunk, I settle on the small couch to collect my thoughts.  “Perhaps a nap?” I think out loud.  That would be nice.  I lie down with my head on the armrest, covering myself with the small quilt that was neatly folded on the back.  A rest is much deserved.  My brain doesn’t even go near the mystery of the knocking.  It is almost like it never happened.  A figment of my imagination.

***

Eloise walked down the hall towards Jim’s office.  She had no reason to go there.  Jim had been gone for three weeks already.  It was just so ingrained in her routine to check on him throughout the day.  “It’s probably guilt,” she said out loud to no one.  “If I had listened to my instincts and checked on him, he would probably still be here.”  The hallway didn’t answer.  “Instead, I listened to him and didn’t take him lunch.”  It was a good lunch too, she mused.  Standing outside Jim’s office door, she gave it three loud knocks.  KNOCK.  KNOCK.  KNOCK.  A tear trickled down her cheek.  What she wouldn’t give to hear him yell, “Come in!”

Michelle C Jacobs is of Kanien’keha:ka First Nations and European descent and currently resides in the Similkameen Valley of British Columbia on the ancestral, traditional, and unceded territory of the Similamix people. Creative artistry has always been her passion. Beadwork, painting, and writing have been her artistic outlets since youth. She has recently taken time from travelling the Powwow Trail to focus more on her writing. While she misses the nomadic life and the people of the Powwow Trail, she is pleased with her choice. She loves animals and her various pets provide excellent company as she creates.