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The man she buried is back and knocking at her door, as he is every night. She knew he would come, she hoped he wouldn’t. Every night when the clock ticks over to twenty seven minutes past four in the morning, the sound of his fist thudding against her front door is heard. She can hear his ragged breaths on the other side. Wherever she is in the house, wherever she hides, she can hear him. He is hoarse, whispers gasping through the door.	He has been there every night since his last. The first night she heard him she knew it was his voice. She didn’t believe it was him at first, how could she? Last she saw him she was covering his body in soil in a secluded part of the forest. Her bare feet cold on the wooden floor, she tiptoed towards the door. The door was the same as it always was, faded wood with her keys and coats hanging next to it, slightly distorted by shadows in the dim light but where she left them. She knew that if she opened the door she would be able to see the hallway and her neighbour’s front door. But something felt off, nothing that she could see, but something was waiting for her on the other side.&nbsp;	Peering anxiously through the peephole she saw him. She knew his face anywhere, he was etched into her mind. His eyes open, the look of shock frozen on his face the same one as when she killed him, the eyes that had stared at the ceiling after he hit the floor now staring at her though the door. She did not scream, she did not run, she just stared back at him through the door. No one knows what she has done. Except for him.	He was there every night from then on, every time the clock hit twenty seven past four she would hear his fist hit her door. No matter where she hid she could hear him, his voice hoarse, words distorted.	She saw him in her dreams, his face and his death. He haunted her sleeping and waking moments, soon she didn’t know the difference. The dreams were always of the night it had happened. Sometimes from the moment that he knocked roughly on her door and his voice filled her home to the moment he stopped breathing, sometimes it started the moment he took a sip from his cup.	It had happened so fast and not at all like she thought it would, she had come up with a thousand different ways to do it. His ugly laugh quickly turned to painful choking. His eyes so full of malice quickly consumed by fear. He made the most awful sounds, falling onto the carpet, eyes flashing around. He caught her in his gaze for a moment, eyes locking onto her face, before becoming fixed on the ceiling and his body became still, then silent. All that time tormenting herself over the details just for him to barely make a mess.&nbsp;	She didn’t get up for a few minutes, moving only to check he was dead, looking up at the clock as it ticked over to twenty seven minutes past four. His body didn’t stay on her floor for long, once he was dead she was sure of what to do.&nbsp;	Packaging his body up and getting him down to her car without anyone seeing. She drove to the spot she had chosen, somewhere no one ever goes. It took her two hours to dig the hole then fill it back in. You wouldn’t know that anyone had been there for a long time, she did a good job.&nbsp;	She didn’t stay long, driving back and quickly locking herself back in her flat. Then she cleaned her floor for a very long time	His face was on the news very quickly, people in smart suits talking about how he had disappeared, how he was loved by everyone and if anyone had any information they are implored to step forward. Eventually they moved on, talking about other events, but she remained stuck, cursed by the knowledge of his fate. She used to drive past the spot she hid him when going to work everyday, twice a day. This routine quickly stopped though, as did any other routines. Soon she didn’t leave her flat at all, spending her time hiding, hoping he wouldn’t knock at her door tonight.&nbsp;	Sitting next to the door she can hear what he is saying. He doesn’t know why he is here, doesn’t understand why he is nowhere else. The thing that frightens her most is hearing her name from his mouth. She doesn’t always understand what he is saying, his gurgling voice muttering about things she doesn’t know about. Sometimes his voice is too broken to be making the words at all. She knows that she did this, she doesn’t know how to make it stop. Every night she wishes it would stop, every night he is at the door.	He is behind the door again. His ragged breaths hauntingly clear through the thick wood. Sitting with her back against the door as she does every night now, she listens to him. She no longer screams or cries. She just sits, looking at the spot on the carpet she hasn’t been able to walk on since his last night. A particularly painful splutter from outside makes her wince, tears trickling down her cheeks but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away.&nbsp;	I have to stop this, she thinks to herself. She repeats it over and over again, trying to drive away his mutterings that fill her head otherwise. If I could just tell him to go away, she thinks, would he listen?&nbsp;	Would he listen?	Carefully she forces herself up, a sudden determination locked into her mind. Her face is still damp with tears but she doesn’t notice anymore. Her fingers curl around the door handle, it’s cold but real. She grips onto it and looks straight ahead, knowing that the only thing in the way is the door that he does not seem to be able to get past.	She knows she should feel dread, terror, something, standing there with her hand on the door handle but she doesn’t feel much of anything, her head full of his incoherent mutterings. Tightening her grip of the handle she suddenly tugs. The door swings open, and she is standing face to face with him. Their eyes meet.

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Whispers From Behind The Door

Mylaela75

Isabel

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Whispers From Behind The Door

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