Knock-Knock-Knock.

Knock-knock-knock. . . ?



Three short, sharp shocks to her bedroom wall—to be specific, the wall behind her bed.



She lives in a row of attached houses and she’d never thought the walls thin until now. As she lays in bed with her latest Grisham novel slipping out of warm, nerveless fingers, and a mug of Darjeeling tea on her night table, the knocking is a dash of cold water. It startles her out of a voluptuous half-sleep where she is Grisham’s latest beleaguered and ethically-challenged young lawyer.



But even startled into sudden wakefulness, her bedroom is a cozy, well-decorated haven for tasteful furniture and charcoal-smudge shadows that practically demand of one a slow slide into slumber. The armoire, slightly ajar, is a tall, silent sentinel opposite her bed, and the dresser a matching companion in the far left corner across from it. The closet door next to that is firmly shut. Across from it, against the opposing wall, her over-stuffed reading chair and its tall, ambient lamp sit forsaken, over-looked tonight for the ultimate comfort of her bed.



She doesn’t know what to make of the knocking.



But, being short and sharp, even the echo of the knocks is gone before she’s completely awake. She’s not really sure she heard anything—half thinks it was the reverberation of water down a particularly noisy pipe. So she finishes her tea and lays the novel on the night table next to the empty mug.



She’s asleep before her head hits the pillow again.

*

Knock-knock-knock—



—the same as last night, only lacking some of the curiously hesitant, testing quality.



Coming from the wall behind her head and behind her headboard—slightly above, actually—it’s definitely not a reverberation, but a knocking, as if someone were entreating entrance.



From next door, perhaps?



She stifles a yawn then sips her tea. She can only imagine ninety-six year old Mrs. Karabatsos waking her tired, arthritic bones up at after one a.m. to knock on their adjoining wall.



But the knock sounds almost . . . something. There’s something off about the sound. Even were Mrs. K. inclined to knock on walls in the wee hours, there’s still something strange, something that would belie Mrs. K’s involvement in this—knocking.



Definitely something off, she thinks, before suddenly closing her eyes. The half-empty cup of tea sags out of lax fingers.

*

Knock-knock-knock.



The knock is hollow.



That’s what the strangeness is, the feeling of off. And the knocking is most definitely coming from between her wall and Mrs. Karabatsos’ wall. But it still has that hollow sound, as if the knocker was, in reality, thousands of miles away and this is the echo of that distant knock.



At the same time, it also sounds solid and immediate.



Close.



With an accuracy that calls to mind Swiss timepieces, at one twenty-one a.m. exactly, the knocking returns. Not interrogative and questioning, as the previous two nights, but sure, confident. The strident knock of a man who knows what you’ve been needing all your life yet going without and, by golly, he just so happens to have one to sell you.



The Grisham novel sits unfinished on her nightstand, along with her bedside lamp, her reading glasses, clock-radio, and full mug. She quickly chugs her now tepid tea. An ignoble way for Darjeeling to die, in her opinion. But while waiting for the knock, she had, without even realizing it, touched neither novel nor tea. The knocking had taken up residence in her unguarded thoughts, edging out such mundane comforts as tea and novels.



She shakes her head to clear it. Such thoughts are, of course, worse than silly, they’re useless . . . the fruits of an over-tired mind. It is merely an old pipe banging, or mice cavorting—or a large spider, working to some indecipherable scheme and schedule.



Random knocks do not have characteristics or personalities or intent.



It’s as simple as that.



Secure in her certainty, she puts her empty mug down and turns out the light. Sleep is quick in coming, but less than gracious about staying.

*

Knock-knock-knock.



Every night for two weeks, on time and without fail.



Her curiosity had, predictably, overcome her. Some days ago it had done so. Now she sits on her bed and contemplates the wall behind her headboard. It looks the same as ever it has: smoothly wallpapered a tasteful, understated tan with beige and ochre chevrons running vertically. There’s nary a bump or bubble to mar the surface of the innocuous paper, and nothing curious or even interesting about the wall, for it to have betrayed her so. But about half-way between her headboard and ceiling hangs a reproduction of a Georgia O’Keefe print, Black Iris. The flower is a dreamy study in smoky charcoals, rain-washed greys, and hints of delicate shell-pink. Normally, she finds the print a restful, soothing thing. But tonight it represents all the frustration of weeks of nightly knocking. The flower seems traitorous, now—seems to mock her, with its mysterious portal-like opening, from behind which the knocking always seems to emanate.



Kneeling on her bed, she removes the till-recently beloved print from the wall, and leans it against the side of the bed. Then she settles in to wait.



She is tired and anxious. Her eyes are wan, glittering stones set in the pale dough of her face. In her hand is a mostly empty glass of white zinfandel that has been totally forgotten in her anticipation. On her night table, the Grisham novel has acquired a fine layer of dust.



She drums her fingers impatiently on her thigh. It is one-nineteen a.m. and twenty seconds according to her recently purchased stopwatch. When she sleeps, she does so not in her flannel nightgown. Lately, she sleeps in a worn tracksuit that has collected numerous Darjeeling and white zinfandel stains. She often falls asleep with her cup or glass in hand.



She is always merest seconds away from nodding off, only to jerk awake again.



Not so, tonight.



Despite the nearly empty bottle of wine, she will be quite awake tonight. It took her longer than it should have, but she has finally noticed the connection between the knocking and the time she falls asleep. Like clockwork, the knocking would start and, like clockwork, when it ceased, she would fall almost immediately to sleep.



Not so, tonight.



Tonight, she fights the urge, will fight the urge—the instinct to fall asleep; the instinct for self-preservation.



One-twenty a.m. and forty-five seconds.



For the first time in these many days, she will be awake after the knocking has stopped. Even in the place between one wall and the next - between one world and the next—her will to stay awake and answer the knock can be felt. Her desire to know what comes next . . . what comes after the answering. And answer it she will.



The Closed Way will at last be opened and I will be reborn unto this Earth.



Mankind will groan and shudder under my presence, once more. They will unite to sing hosannas to the end of all hope and the inception of abomination incarnate . . . hosannas the likes of which have never before been wrenched from mortal hearts or throats.



Let such sweet paeans glorify my eternal reign.



One twenty a.m. and fifty-nine seconds.



Knock. Knock. Knock.

End