Tap, tap, tap.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

Tap, tap, tap.

The house is silent now, the whispered screaming over.

Tap, tap, tap.

He’s sorry now that he scared me.

Tap, tap, tap.

Do the downstairs neighbors know that he is lying on the floor in the back hall and tapping on my door?

Tap, tap, tap.

I put my face in my hands. This night will never be over. He will never leave.

I stand up, put my hand on the wood door, finger the places that the paint is peeling, caress the door as if it is a child or a favored pet.

I kneel and bend over, whisper under the door. “You need to go now. I won’t open the door in the dark.”

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#42/100: 42nd in a series of 100 in 100

Thank you to The Daily Post for bringing back a memory of something that happened a long time ago.