Łukasz sat inside a small trailer, watching some action movie, the kind you forget within thirty minutes of the show ending, and the next day you can't even explain how you spent your evening. He held a beer in his left hand. "That's the fourth one that evening," he thought, and downed almost half the contents of the green can in one gulp. Somewhere near the trailer, thunder boomed, and the televisions became covered in dense static, making further viewing impossible.
"It was crap anyway," Łukasz said, quickly checking other stations, but all showed only static.
He turned off the TV. He was about to lie down on the small pink couch when he heard a scratching sound coming from somewhere outside. He jumped to his feet and hit the trailer's low ceiling painfully. He immediately sat back down on the couch and grabbed the top of his head with his right hand. He listened. But now all he could hear was the roar of the wind, the thunder, and the downpour.
"Easy. Just be calm. You misheard something. That's all."
When he finally calmed down, he heard the mysterious sound again, sounding like fingernails scraping against the uneven wood. Łukasz jumped again, startled. This time, however, he didn't hit the ceiling. He sat bolt upright on the couch, staring nervously at the trailer's exit door. The sound came from somewhere far away, but it had to be incredibly loud to penetrate the sounds of the storm. The sounds echoed in Łukasz's head. He was afraid.
It was just like when he was seven. Just like when his father died. Just like when he'd stood in front of the closed door behind which the sounds were coming. Sounds similar to those he'd just heard. Not similar, he corrected himself mentally. "Identical."
But now there was a storm outside again. Nothing more. Łukasz reached for the flashlight and sat down, weighing the object in his hand. He hesitated. Finally, he grasped the plastic handle of the trailer door with his right hand and quickly opened it. Across from him, the foundations of a house rose, and somewhere in the distance, an outhouse was dimly visible. The storm had subsided somewhat, but a rather heavy rain was still falling, limiting his vision. The beam of light from the flashlight danced nervously across the construction site, and Łukasz's gaze followed it. Raindrops struck the clay steadily, creating ever-new puddles. There was no one in sight on the site. The cement mixer stood quietly by the pile of sand, in the same spot as before. Out of the corner of his eye, Łukasz saw movement and aimed his flashlight at it, which stopped at the outhouse. For a moment, he thought he saw the wooden outhouse move slightly. He froze with fear. He felt his muscles tense, and beads of sweat began to form on his back. He stood still, staring at the hastily assembled shed. He was afraid that the moment he lowered his gaze, it would move again. "
Terrible People," he said after a moment, and turned off the flashlight.
He closed the trailer door and lay down on the small couch. He opened another beer and began to sip it slowly, listening intently to the sounds coming from outside, like a rabbit lurking in a small hole. But he heard nothing. After a moment, he felt his eyelids begin to feel heavy. He settled back. Now the recent fear seemed abstract. He told himself he'd only heard the sounds of the forest, wild animals, or falling branches. He'd completely forgotten about the bouncing outhouse. His mind simply dismissed the image as an optical illusion, like a mirage, or the splatter of steaming water you might see on the asphalt on particularly hot days.
Sleep came unexpectedly. In fact, it was a relived memory. An incredibly real memory. In it, Łukasz watched a small, seven-year-old boy sitting on a bed in a dark room, staring at white model airplanes on a shelf. At one point, the boy stood up and moved toward the door. Łukasz tried to block his exit, but he was unable to. When he blocked the boy's path, he passed through him as if through thin air and emerged from the room into a dark corridor that seemed to stretch on forever.
Łukasz ran after him, screaming all the while, but the boy ignored him. The boy headed toward the white bathroom door looming somewhere at the far end of the corridor. As he moved along the dark walls, his goal seemed to recede and grow smaller. The boy started running, but suddenly another door blocked his path—a brown and massive door, like the gates of a castle. Łukasz stopped screaming and stood beside the boy, who was staring at the door. The whole world spun, the corridor walls dissolved into darkness. Everything around seemed as unstable as a reflection in a pond. The only final thing was the massive brown door. Nothing else mattered.
Suddenly, scratching sounds and a faint wheezing sound came from behind the door. The boy and the man simultaneously pressed their ears to the wood just above the massive doorknob. The scratching turned into a shuffling sound. Somewhere behind the door, something clattered to the floor. Łukasz felt a warm stream of urine run down his leg and looked at the boy. No. He wasn't looking at the boy anymore. He was looking at himself. Now he was the only one left, a seven-year-old boy with a wet pant leg, standing in the darkness, listening to the sounds coming from behind the door. He didn't know what to do, unable to lift his feet from the ground. On the other side was some beast. Some monster. After a moment, he regained control. He took a step back. He hit something and fell onto the soft carpet. He quickly got to his feet and ran along the burgundy carpet that led him to the room.
As he fled, he heard a hoarse scream coming from behind the brown door.
"Łukasz!" the beast screamed his name, and he ran along the carpet in the darkness.
"Łukasz!" the same rasping voice again, this time much quieter.
Suddenly, his room appeared before the boy, his bed looking like some impregnable bastion. The boy immediately dove under the covers. Only now could he breathe. He cried, but slowly recovered. Here he felt safe. The snarling monster behind the door was far behind him. Now he was out of danger, safe.
"Łukasz! Łukasz! Łukasz!" he suddenly heard the same terrifying voice.
He squeezed his eyes shut and curled up under the covers. But the voice didn't stop calling him. It persistently screamed his name.
Suddenly, everything fell silent.
The boy waited a moment longer, and when the sounds didn't return, he only uncovered the top of his head. He counted to three and opened his eyes, clutching the blanket, ready to cover himself with it at any moment.
He groaned when he saw the hanged man, but he didn't retreat back under the covers. Curiosity got the better of him.
The man dangled from a rope in the shadows just in front of his bed. The toes of his elegant black shoes repeatedly scraped the boy's carpet. His head was slightly bowed, and his arms hung limply at his sides.
"Dad?" the boy asked quietly.
Only silence answered him.
"Dad!" he repeated louder.
Just as once again, no one answered him. Only the silence seemed to thicken, the only sounds breaking it were the boy's shallow breathing and the hanged man's shoes repeatedly scraping the carpet.
"Dad!" the boy shouted.
Suddenly, the hanged man raised his head. His bulging eyes stared directly at Łukasz. The swollen, pale tongue that had previously been hanging from his mouth now began to move rhythmically. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight.
"If someone had heard, there might still be a chance," the hanged man rasped, then added, smacking his lips. "Bye, man!"
This time Łukasz didn't even try to hide under the covers; he was too busy screaming.
He woke up covered in sweat. For a moment, he nervously looked around. He was alone in the trailer. Relieved, he grabbed a small table and gripped it tightly. Thoughts and memories swirled in his head. After all these years, a childhood nightmare came back to him. He found him here at night, in the middle of nowhere.
Łukasz sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his temple. He was fighting for his life—he remembered the words from his dream—"If someone had heard, there might still be a chance."
His thoughts drifted back to his memories. He recalled his father's posthumous expression precisely, with almost photographic precision, when he found him hanging in the studio in the early morning. Now, before him once again stood a livid face, bulging eyes and a grotesquely curved mouth hidden beneath a thick mustache. Dead eyes glared at him accusingly, and pale skin gleamed faintly in the rays of the rising sun. This was how he remembered his father, how he had seen him in dreams for years. Now the nightmare returned with renewed intensity. "
There would still be a chance," Łukasz repeated quietly under his breath.
He had heard these words from a policeman who had come to the house to investigate. Łukasz had never learned why his father had committed suicide. His mother refused to discuss it with him. Besides, he was more preoccupied with another thought than with the investigation—that he had killed him. The policeman confirmed these suspicions. The hanged man struggled with the rope for over fifteen minutes. He had probably given up on suicidal thoughts at some point, but it was too late. For some time after the chair had been knocked aside, he had to stand on tiptoe, fighting for his life. Then he tried to stand on the chair leg, but finally, when it broke, he stopped struggling and allowed the rope to tighten around his neck with deadly force.
He was fighting for his life. If anyone had heard, there might still be a chance, the policeman said, ignoring the child standing in the corner of the room. The child had heard, but it didn't help; instead, it fled terrified to its own room and hid under the covers.
Łukasz reached for the can and took a small sip, but immediately spat out the contents of his mouth. The beer was carbonated and unpleasant. Besides, he'd had enough alcohol for the evening. As he stood up, he felt his bladder tighten uncomfortably. He had to go to the bathroom. The thought of stepping out of the trailer into the heavy rain replaced his memories. All that mattered now was the small outhouse on the other side of the construction site and his bladder filled with the beer he'd just consumed.
Łukasz reached for a large flashlight and opened the door. It was still raining outside, but the heaviest downpour had long since passed. A very strong wind was blowing, blowing small drops in all directions, giving the impression that the rain wasn't falling from the sky but was drifting in from somewhere in the forest.
The man stood on the wet clay and closed the trailer door behind him. The wind ruffled his black hair and whipped raindrops across his face. He started toward the outhouse, but immediately slipped and fell straight into the wet clay. He cursed silently and tried to stand up. He only managed it on the third try. Once he was firmly on his feet, he bent down to reach for the flashlight. It slipped from his hand a few times, as if it had come to life and wanted to become some kind of mud fish.
Before taking another step, Łukasz carefully looked around, searching for something to lean on. Finally, his eyes fell on a spade propped against the wall of the building. He cautiously approached it and gripped the shovel in his right hand. The tool proved a bit too long, but Łukasz couldn't see anything better nearby. After all, it's only a matter of walking a few meters, he thought.
With the help of the spade, he managed to reach the outhouse without any major problems. The outhouse stood on the edge of the plot, on a small hill. Beyond it, he could see a dark forest shrouded in shadow. The boards and nails that made up the outhouse creaked softly in the breeze. Łukasz shone the light on the latrine and felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The door it was made of was identical to the one in his father's workshop. Even the doorknob glowed with the same dead light. He blinked in disbelief when he opened it again and saw only an ordinary, old brown door. He felt dizzy. Instinctively, he grabbed the wet doorknob to steady himself. He looked at the door again. Now, he was certain it was different from the one he hadn't opened as a seven-year-old. He pressed the knob and then entered the privy.
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