Down the Corridor
He closes and locks his apartment's door absentmindedly, turning toward the end of the corridor where the lifts are. An old, unfamiliar woman, her skin nearly as pale as her nightgown, stands, seemingly confused, in front of one of the other units.
He takes a few steps and she looks up, staring into his eyes. Her face tilts slightly as if trying to remember something. Before he can ask if she has locked herself out, he hears a tapping behind him.
Someone inside the apartment at the other end of the corridor is tapping on their front door, softly but repeatedly, seeming to call out without drawing too much attention.
He knows few of his neighbour an then only superficially but the tapping has such insistency that he fears someone may be in danger. He walks back down with the older woman apparently deciding to follow.
As he draws closer and closer to the door, the tapping becomes louder and more insistant. From a single finger tap-tap-tap it has turned into a full palm continuous series of slaps against the frame.
Emerging from the most primal part of his brain, a feeling of wrongness comes over him. He slows his steps and calls out, asking if someone needs help. Only a renewed vigor in the knocks answers him.
As he reaches the door, now being hit by a frenzied barage of hands, it suddenly occurs to him that he had been mistaken. The old woman now standing behind him, he *had* seen her before.
That was, when she was alive...
He takes a few steps and she looks up, staring into his eyes. Her face tilts slightly as if trying to remember something. Before he can ask if she has locked herself out, he hears a tapping behind him.
Someone inside the apartment at the other end of the corridor is tapping on their front door, softly but repeatedly, seeming to call out without drawing too much attention.
He knows few of his neighbour an then only superficially but the tapping has such insistency that he fears someone may be in danger. He walks back down with the older woman apparently deciding to follow.
As he draws closer and closer to the door, the tapping becomes louder and more insistant. From a single finger tap-tap-tap it has turned into a full palm continuous series of slaps against the frame.
Emerging from the most primal part of his brain, a feeling of wrongness comes over him. He slows his steps and calls out, asking if someone needs help. Only a renewed vigor in the knocks answers him.
As he reaches the door, now being hit by a frenzied barage of hands, it suddenly occurs to him that he had been mistaken. The old woman now standing behind him, he *had* seen her before.
That was, when she was alive...
Comments
Post a Comment