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Rated: E · Book · Drama · #1019016
Who is at the door when Janet hears three knocks in the middle of the night?
This is a short story that I hope to build on. This could turn into more than a short story as I develop it – depending on the feedback I receive. I am still developing the style and tempo, so please be patient. Hopefully, I will receive some reviews on this piece of work as I continue to write. Thank you in advance for your helpful reviews.



THREE KNOCKS ON THE DOOR (Part I)


Knock! Knock! Knock!

Three steady, purposeful raps on the hardwood door startle Janet Henslor from a light sleep on the living room couch. She was alone tonight, and dreaded sleeping in the bedroom alone.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Janet pulls on her robe while she looks at the clock, and her slender body shutters when she sees the glowing red numbers of the brightly lit clock sitting on top of the television read 3:07.

She asks herself, “three in the morning? Who could be at the door at this time of the night?”

She finishes tying the belt of her silk robe around her waist and stands up. She steals a glance in the mirror above the television and notices that her 32-year old skin looks worn and tired. Sure, she keeps herself in immaculate shape thanks to three weekly trips to the local YMCA. And, most people would still say she looks stunning, but she sure doesn’t feel that way at the moment.

She looks around the room once more to gather her thoughts and shake the cobwebs from her still sleepy head, and slowly starts to walk to the door. After a few steps, she stops dead in her tracks: three in the morning could only mean one thing. A cold sweat grips her body as she stands paralyzed five short steps from the door.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Panicked and frightened, she glances around the room and finds a picture of her husband, Franklin, on the wall. Oh, how she loves him. She stares at his likeness, looking for some sort of inner-strength to emanate from his steely eyes in her time of need.

She thinks back to the days when they were younger, and how he was the perfect man for her. Loving, strong, good-looking, fatherly – everything she had missed when she was growing up in a fatherless home in Cincinnati.

“What were the chances?” That was a question she had asked herself a thousand times in the 10 years of their marriage. What were the chances that the two of them would happen to sit next to each other at the 1995 Opening Day for the Cincinnati Reds baseball team on cold, April late-afternoon? They were two single adults, each watching their beloved home team – and the Reds ticket agents had them sitting next to each other 10 rows behind home plate.

The romance between the two took off almost immediately. By the end of the game, he was keeping her warm as snowflakes dotted the seats of Riverfront Stadium. They didn’t want the game to end, and the Reds and Braves did their part to keep the romantic fires lit, as they played 14 innings. By the time the game ended on what turned into a brisk night, the sellout crowd was down to a few hundred die-hard fans – and two lovebirds.

She wonders how in the world she can remember Johnny Milwaski driving a deep home run into the center field green seats to give the Reds a 3-2 victory. That was the only thing she can remember about the game since she spent most of her time looking into Franklin’s eyes. Johnny’s round-tripper was the perfect ending to a perfect evening.

A whirlwind courtship saw them standing at the alter a mere three months later. And since Franklin’s brother was the Equipment Manager for the Reds, the wedding took place at home plate in Riverfront Stadium, with Johnny Milwaski and a few other Reds players in attendance.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Fear grips deep in her soul as the heavy hand slams the brass door-knocker down onto its base, snapping her out of the daydream. In a panic, she slips a hand inside the desk drawer in the hallway. She feels around inside the middle drawer – pushing aside paperclips, pens and envelopes – until she find what she is looking for. At the same time, tears fill her eyes as she hears whispers outside the door. She knows what the men want. She can feel it. She pulls her hand from and drawer and tightly grips the Rosary beads that were given to her as a gift from Franklin when he returned from a trip to Turkey.

With her legs still unable to move, Janet looks around the room again and sees the framed ticket stub of that Opening Day Reds game on the wall, right next to their wedding pictures and marriage certificate. She will never forget that cold, April day, no matter what happens next.

Knock! Knock! Knock! “We know you are inside, please open the door.”

When she finally gathers the courage to open the door, three impeccably dressed men in dark suits stand in the doorway –all with serious, stern looks on their faces. She looks to the ground and motions for them to come inside. This was the worst day of her life.

“Ma’am, are you Mrs. Franklin Henslor,” the eldest, and tallest, man asks.

“Yes, I am Janet, Franklin’s wife,” she says, tears again welling up in her eyes.

The man takes a step towards her, but she retreats – nearly tripping over the table in the center of the living room. Janet grips the ivory Rosary beads in her palm with all of her strength.

“Janet, do you know why we are here?” the man asks, and she slowly nods her head up and down.

“Ma’am, my name is Colonel John Michaels, and I regret to inform you that Master Sergeant Henslor has been killed while serving our country in Iraq.”

“No!” Janet whimpered. It was as if these men had pulled her heart out.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, please accept our condolences, Mrs. Henslor.”

“Noooooooo…”
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