Fears

****

One lamp on each landing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Three turns of the key in the lock.

Each sole must be wiped on the doormat twice. Touch the door handle, turn the key three more times, and pull the handle twice more to check whether the door is securely locked.

Look in the mirror once.

The mirror reflects me. A dark bristle of hair, gray sunken eyes, a thread of dry lips. They say the appearance is unremarkable, and I understand that. As I also understand that my actions, my rituals, are useless and will not protect me from danger. I know this, and yet I check once more whether the door is securely locked.

It all began about two years ago, when I forgot to lock the front door. Someone burst in, grabbed my backpack hanging in the hallway, and disappeared before I could do anything. The police were of no help in finding the thief, and I lost nothing valuable except my own peace of mind. Fear is always hungry, and to live it needs food — which I generously provided. The constant memory that the door must be locked turned into a mania, and the mania grew protective ritual-habits. The thought that someone could enter my home without my knowledge is unbearable. I checked the door, then checked it again, assuming I had forgotten the first time and not trusting myself. After some time, I began pulling the door handle twice whenever entering or leaving the apartment — slowly, memorizing each gesture.

But that was not enough for fear, and the habit dragged others along with it. I make sure: no one has entered the apartment during my absence, and I do this before going inside myself. Just to be certain — I wipe my feet on the mat an even number of times. Even numbers are the most reliable.

And once more I get up at night, after waking, to check how well the door is locked. I do not get enough sleep, but I am safe.

Pushed back by protective rituals, the fear retreated. I lived almost normally until one day the ritual was interrupted, banally and rudely. Climbing the stairs to my door, I carefully counted the lamps and made the required number of turns of the key in the lock. And then a wasp buzzed by my ear. I was wiping my shoes on the mat, but the wasp kept buzzing and I swatted at it, losing count.

Laugh all you want, but my world collapsed. I felt as if I were standing on a crumbling platform in the center of a void. Me — and the wasp still flying somewhere above my head. Exhaling, I tried to pull myself together, scraped my shoes twice on the mat, and stepped over the threshold. The wasp darted inside after me and hovered near my neck. I slapped at the creature and turned the key three times.

My palm, stung at the last moment, swelled and went numb, while I stood in the hallway, staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror, trying to remember how many times I had wiped my feet on the mat and whether I had touched the door handle before locking it. And had I done so afterward? Hardly anyone could give me the answer except myself — and I was silent, feeling fear approach. The door was surely locked, but the irrational feeling grew like a tidal wave.

I touched the door handle twice and went into the room. But I knew it would no longer save me. The protective ritual had been broken.

That night I slept even worse than usual. I alternated between hot and cold, my hand ached, and the thoughts boiling in my brain would not let me fall asleep or focus on anything else.

How many times did I scrape my shoes on the mat?

How many times did I check the door handle?

I tried to remember and could not. The clash with the wasp remained clear, while my own actions drowned in some kind of fog. After tossing and turning a while longer, I slid out of bed and went to check the door. I could no longer persuade myself to stay in the warmth and believe that everything was fine. Trust had been lost.

Yes. It was locked. Smiling with satisfaction into the darkness, I wanted to return to bed… and couldn’t, when I heard quiet breathing coming from outside. Trying to step silently, I pressed myself to the peephole. The greenish-lit stairwell, distorted by the convex lens, came into view. And someone was there — motionless and tall. He stood right behind the door and waited. I could feel with my skin the gaze directed straight at me through steel and upholstery. He knew the ritual had been broken. And he was waiting for something.

I don’t know how long I sat on the hallway floor in complete darkness, listening to the steady, raspy breathing behind the door. A couple of times I stood up to look through the peephole, but he did not leave. And I did not dare press the door handle again to check how securely the apartment was locked. Perhaps that was all he was waiting for — proof that I was home, behind the door, and that I had ruined the ritual.

Finally, I made up my mind. Quickly pressing the handle and pulling the door — locked — I dashed to my room as fast as I could. The one who had been breathing outside fell silent, and I could only hope he had gone. And I curled up under the blanket, turning toward the wall.

When the door opened, one of the hinges made a characteristic, recognizable creak. I heard it. I needed to invent a new ritual, and looking through the gap between the blanket and the bed, I tried to find something — anything — to count. Something even.

I hear slow steps toward my room. Toward the bed. I tremble with horror and count the carved curls on the headboard. One. Two. Three.

The guest breathes hoarsely and steadily. He waits for me to finish counting, and I do not dare turn around to look into the eyes of embodied fear.

Four. Five. Six.

I slightly lift the edge of the blanket to see the other curls. I see the edge of a pale elongated silhouette and, freezing with terror, continue counting, silently moving my lips.

Seven. Eight. Nine. That’s all.

With a wheezing sigh, he tears the blanket off me, and the last thing I see is nine round, unblinking eyes.