Chapter Three

It had been two nights since his ordeal. Two long, dread nights of shot nerves and dark imaginings; of whisky, wonder and grimmest speculation. They were the kind of nights that seem to lengthen and loom like autumn shadows, that drag like nails on a blackboard, or that snap and backfire like a metaphor pushed too far.

Even in his addled, sleep-deprived state, his inner pedant wrestled with the shame of using the word 'metaphor' when he meant 'simile'.

"It just sounds better," he reasoned, "...and besides, as long as I don't draw unnecessary attention to it with a lengthy explanation, no-one will notice. Not knowing my readership. These are the sort of people still awake, alone, and browsing social media long past midnight, if you could even call them people. Frankly, they will get the literature they deserve." He leaned back in his chair, and almost into the arms of sleep for one delicious moment before starting at an imagined sound and throwing a paranoid glance over one shoulder, towards the door. He knew that, in truth, semantics ought to be the least of his concern right now.

Since the small hours of the morning, he had agonised over how best to describe the encounter on the doorstep. Though the notion of doing so inspired in him an almost unbearable nervous agitation, he knew it was his duty to set the events to paper; no matter how eldritch and harrowing. He had toyed with the idea of saying they were 'indescribable' and leaving it at that, but at length had decided that would make him no better than Lovecraft; a condemnation more bleak and damning than he could bear. Swallowing hard, he resolved to do what must be done, wearily flexing his brittle fingers over the keyboard.

He hadn't time to type a solitary character, though, before his breath caught in his throat, his blood began to pound in his ears, and a hollow, wooden sound echoed starkly through the hall. A tapping, rapping sound, as of some bony appendage, rang upon the front door. He froze, praying it was not real, that the tides of madness had finally swept him under; but to no avail. After a short silence, the knocking came again, as clear as the moon on the water.

He would not be caught off guard again. He slipped like drunken mercury from his chair and slinked into the kitchen, meaning to arm himself before confronting his tormentor. He swiped in a panic at the utensils, coming up first with a ladle. This, he exchanged for salad tongs, before reconsidering and returning to the ladle. In a final act of desperation, he opted for a large potato masher, the business end of which was reassuringly weighted. Deciding this would make a serviceable bludgeoning weapon, he took up the tongs in his off-hand, and crept down the hallway. Slipping the tongs into the pocket of his gown, he reached for the door handle with one trembling hand; the other raised the masher high over his head. For one deep, shuddering breath, he screwed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, they blazed with all the light and fury he could muster, and he threw the door open before him.