Stranger At Your Door

Stranger At Your Door

Deborah came home exhausted. The bottoms of her feet throbbed with pain as she ascended the three floors to her apartment. As she fished out her keys, she leaned heavily against the door for support. Finally getting inside, she threw the keys onto the table, kicking off her three-inch heels in the corner of the living room. She flopped down on the couch, the stress of her eight-hour shift making its way into her bones. As she shifted to get comfortable, the telephone began ringing on the table beside her.
Dammit, I just got home; give me a minute to wind down with you? she thought, staring at the phone with annoyance.
The ringing continued, oblivious to her tiredness. Rolling her eyes and giving a sigh, she picked it up.
“Hello?” she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. Instead of receiving a reply, all she heard on the other end was static. It was as if she was listening to a broken radio signal. After a few seconds of hearing this, Deborah hung up.
Okay, I have to call the telephone company as soon as I get up tomorrow morning. I can’t have a telephone that’s acting up she thought. Getting up from the couch, she took one last look at the telephone, and then headed off to bed. A few hours later, the phone in her room rang. Squinting in the darkness, she looked at the glowing digital numbers on the clock. 3:32 it read in bright red numbers.
Who the fuck could be calling me this late at night? Don’t they know what go to bed means?
Deborah rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, pulling the covers over her head and mumbling incoherently.
The ringing continued. A glass of water shook slightly to its sounds. Moving inch by inch to the edge of the nightstand, it finally tipped over, shattering on the floor. Just at that moment, the phone stopped ringing. Startled awake, Deborah withdrew from the covers, flipped on her nightstand lamp and looked over the side of her bed. Water and glass glistened in the light. Fuming, Deborah crawled over the other side of the bed, wondering how she was going to clean up the mess without a broom and dustpan nearby. Saying a silent prayer, she tried to step cautiously over the glass. Halfway there, her left foot smashed down onto a sharp edge sticking out of the wooden floor.
“Ahh shit!” she cursed, lifting her foot. Gasping in pain, she continued the rest of the way, all too aware that she was probably bleeding onto the floorboards. Walking into the kitchen, she grabbed a paper towel off the paper towel rack and dabbed at her injured foot. Yeah, it was bleeding alright. She glanced down the hallway and could see tiny red dots leading to her bedroom. Shaking her head, she grabbed the mop from the utility closet, filled a bucket full of lukewarm water, poured a bit of bleach in and proceeded to try her best to wash out the blood out of the carpet and her bedroom floor. Next, she went into her bedroom and cleaned up the glass. After forty minutes of backbreaking work, she put the mop and bucket back in the closet. Looking around, it didn’t look too bad. It was near new again. Crawling back into bed, her head barely hit the pillow and she was out like a light.
Just as she was going into a deep sleep, the phone rang. Frowning and fighting hard to get back to sleep, Deborah put her pillow on top of her head to block out the noise. The ringing continued, the sound snaking its way through the pillowcase and into Deborah’s head. Snatching up the telephone she put it up to her ear. “Dammit, quit calling me whoever the hell you are, its late!” Instead of hearing static, there was just silence on the other end. Deborah frowned.
“Hello?” After a few moments, there was a sound of what she thought to be someone breathing on the other end. “Hello?” she repeated, this time her voice came out in a tiny whisper.
“Hello Deborahhhh, are you sleeping well tonightttt?” The voice was raspy sounding, as if the person had smoked too many cigarettes in their life.
Deborah slammed the phone down. Who the hell was that? And how did they know my name? Deborah thought as she looked out of her doorway. All she could see was yellow light flooding the hallway.
Again, the phone rang. Deborah stared at the phone in fright. At that moment, she jumped up and ran to the living room to check the locks. After securing them she went to the windows. She looked at the blinds, afraid to lift them. What if I try and lock them and he’s standing right outside staring at me?
Reaching for the phone, she dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, how may I assist you?”
“A man keeps calling my house, I’m scared he’s watching me.” The operator was quiet a moment.
“Ma’am, when did the calls first start?”
“They started when I first got home tonight which was around 10 p.m.”
Deborah heard the woman typing.
“And Ma’am, what’s your address?”
Deborah told the woman her address.
“Okay, if he calls again, call us back and we’ll have a police officer come to your house.”
Deborah sighed. She wanted them to bring a police officer now, but she decided not to argue with the woman and quietly thanked her and hung up.
As soon as she hung up the telephone, the phone rang.
Deborah picked it up, placing it carefully on her ear and listened.
As she suspected, the raspy sound of the stranger’s breathing came through on the other end.
“Come on now Deborahhhh, do you really think the police can come and save youuuu?”
“What the hell do you want from me you bastard?”
“What do I wanttt? I wanttt what every man wantsss . . . I want your hearttt.”
An evil laugh floated out from the telephone.
Truly scared now, Deborah hung the phone up and redialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, how may I help you?”
“He keeps calling,” Deborah said in a hurried whisper, “he says he wants my heart.”
“Ma’am, if this is a joke, it isn’t funny. ” It took a moment for Deborah to realize that this was a different operator from the one she had spoken to before. Shutting her eyes in frustration, Deborah repeated her story as the clicking of the operator’s fingers glided over her keyboard.
After Deborah was finished talking, the operator then said, “Well ma’am, if you’re truly that scared, I can have an officer out to your home in a few minutes.”
As relief flooded through her, Deborah quickly thanked the operator and hung up.
Deborah sat down on the couch and started biting her nails. Getting up, she walked to the kitchen, looking around, trying to figure out what to do next. Opening the refrigerator, she saw nothing but a bottle of wine, a box of blueberry muffin mix, a bottle of water and some old chilly in a bowl. Opening the bottom drawers, she spotted an orange. Pulling it out, she peeled off the layers and bit into it.
After a full thirty minutes of waiting, she started to become impatient.
Looking at her watch she saw that it was going on 5:15 a.m.
Finally a knock came. With hesitation, Deborah stepped up to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“This is the police, we received a report about a strange phone call.” The voice on the other side was deep, almost giving her a feeling of safeness. Stretching to get a look out the peephole, she scanned the tiny window for any type of movement. She saw a flicker of something outside the window.
“Can you show me your badge please?” The badge pressed against the window.
She could only make out the R and Q, the rest of the letters were unreadable.
“Ma’am, it would help if you’d open the door so we can speak face to face about what’s going on.”
Again, Deborah hesitated.
“What’s your name?”
“Officer Harrison Ma’am.”
Still unsure, but taking a chance, Deborah unlocked the door, smiling widely.
She never saw the hatchet swinging towards her heart. As the hatchet connected, blood gushed out, spraying the man fully in the face. Wiping the blood off with the back of his hand, he leaned down, grinning manically and said into Deborah’s ear, “You should neverrr open the door to strangerrsssss.
With a slight pause, he added, “I told youuu I wanted your heartttttt.”