The Man

Nobody except you sees the man enter. You never miss a trick. The man stands in the kitchen, opening cupboards. Your friends keep talking, debating over films. The man opens the cutlery drawer and removes a butter knife. He holds it up to the window, admiring his reflection in it. The moonlight shines off it. You don’t say anything, you just watch him from across the room.

            Your friend, the one you like more, asks you what’s wrong.

            Nothing, you say.

            The sound of voices attracts the man’s attention. The knife is pointed upwards in his pale hand. He glances through the open doorway and meets your eye. Again, you say nothing. He simply smiles. A wide, toothy grin. He walks out of the back door and leaves it open. His movements remind you of that dance you saw on the television that one time. They are silent and graceful as he glides across the tiles. No sound accompanies his departure. His smile stays with you.

            The other friend, the one you quite like but annoys you in ways which you only vocalize when extremely drunk, watches your face. They follow your gaze and turn to look into the empty room. They make a comment about the open door. How strange, they say in that kind of voice you hate.

            You offer to shut the door as an excuse to explore further. Your legs are shaking as you walk through to the kitchen. There’s a chill in the room which exceeds that created by the wind outside. You stand in the doorway and look down either side of the path. Left. Nothing. The friend you don’t like as much says something about being too cold and leaves the room. Your favourite friend asks if you are alright. Yes, you say. Okay, they say. They leave. Just you now. A mixture of relief and fear. You need to know more about the man, but you remember the smile and shudder. You look to the right.

He stands there, facing you. He is quite still. The rest of the lane is deserted. His black suit stands out against the snow on the ground. Your eyes meet and his smile returns. A tear forms in your eye but you don’t want to let him know that you’re scared. You smile back.

            He doesn’t turn around, but begins to walk away backwards. The mist almost erases him from view. You sigh with relief. And yet, something else. A longing. You need to know more. What if he returns? Something bubbles inside you, anger maybe. You shout, louder than you’ve ever shouted before. Don’t come back.

            The man stops. The mist clears and you can make out every feature of his pointed face. His smile falls. He slowly begins the walk back to your door. His feet meet the snow but make no sound. He leaves no footprints behind. You want to run, but your legs refuse. All you can do is shut your eyes. You stand in the open doorway, tears slowly falling. Breath on your neck. When you open your eyes, he is there. Mere inches from your face. His thin mouth is surrounded by lines. His eyes are deep and narrow, framed by the thick spectacles. He has one of those things on his face which make you feel queasy. You wait for the inevitable attack. Eyes locked together, yours are wide with fear. The man sighs heavily and clutches his briefcase to his chest. You’re sure he didn’t have a briefcase before.

            Looking down, he opens the case just a crack and removes a sliver of black paper. He lifts his head and looks at you, handing you the card. Slowly, you reach up and take it. You never release his gaze. He does not need to say the words; you can read them in his eyes. So clear are these words that it’s as if he’s shouting them, carving them into your senses. Burnt into your eyes and ears. I always come back.

            Once he releases the card into your grasp, he smiles. He lifts up his hand to the side of his face and wiggles his fingers in a departing wave. He turns, and begins the descent down the path. The mist covers him almost instantly. When it clears there is nothing. You stare down the path. Finally, you close the door. It cuts out the sound of the howling wind. The silence engulfs you. You lean against the wall, sweat pouring. You turn over the blank card and see tiny letters emblazoned in gold. Tick, tock.

            The night is suddenly colder. You crumple the card and throw it in the bin. You go to your room and shut the door. You change into your pyjamas, your favourite ones, with the pattern on the trousers. All the while, the smile plagues your mind. You climb into bed and pull the duvet over your head. An irrational subconscious thinks this will protect you.

            After half an hour you come to the conclusion that sleep is not an option. All you can see when you close your eyes is the smile. The eyes. The movement. The words, tick, tock. You lift off the duvet and walk through the corridors, resting in the living room and turning on the television. It’s still on the channel from that show you watched over lunch. The comedy about the group of twenty-something acquaintances. You flick to the news. You don’t normally pay attention, but something about it grabs you. You stand in the centre of the room, eyes fixed. A woman has died, south of where you live. She had two children. The death was not mysterious, but was sudden. An accident, the news reporter says. A neighbour is being interviewed. She has that kind of hair you hate. She says that the day before, the deceased woman had been seen with a man.