The Silent Man – Neil Abercrombie

There is a man at the door.
I watched him walk up the garden path from the vantage point in my living room, before he passed out of sight as he reached the front door. He kept his gaze forward as he journeyed through the garden, so I feel confident that he didn’t spot me as I watched his approach. He is wearing a long dark trench coat, tied up tight at the waist and with the collars turned up, and his hands are thrust into deep pockets. He completes his look with a short dark hat, tilted slightly forward to cover the upper part of his face. It gives him the look of a private detective from a noir film of yesteryear. I know for a fact that I have never seen this man before in my life.

That’s only the first thing I am able to discern about this visitor. He communicates his every intention from his outfit, his stride, even the steps of his feet demonstrate a sense of purpose in his being here. Just from all of this, I can tell with complete certainty that he’s here because he wants to speak to me. As soon as I realise that, everything else falls into place in my head, I know exactly who this man is, and what he wants.
And I know with absolute conviction that I must not answer the door to him, under any circumstances.
My heart rate increases, and fear races through me in quick succession. I can’t quite grasp where my confidence in this man’s intent is coming from. It seems to come straight from deep inside me, an instinct fuelled by the same fears from seeing anything that should not fit alongside the world around me. A grizzly bear in my garden would elicit the same response. I wouldn’t have to explain why I don’t want to open the door if a ferocious predator was there, I would just know not to, and I feel a similar panic right now. This leads me to quickly decide upon every decision I need to make. What this man wishes to speak to me about is the sort of discussion I never want to have. Delaying is not an option; I must avoid speaking with him, whatever it takes.
Fortunately, he didn’t look this way while walking to the front door, so a plan formulates in my mind. All I have to do is sit perfectly still and not answer the door. Hopefully after a minute or two, he’ll assume that no one is home and leave, with little influence on my day.
Then the knocking begins.
A set of three knocks. Gentle, no sense of urgency or threat in their delivery, followed by silence. I can imagine many others knocking exactly like that, a delivery person, for instance. During the ensuing silence I sit motionless, newspaper still held in both hands from when he first appeared. I am careful not to rustle the pages, or make any other sudden movements that he might hear.
Three more successive knocks.
Still nothing out of the ordinary. Plenty of visitors try again just to be sure.
Another three.
He’s not giving in just yet. His visual appearance definitely gave the impression of determination, although surely now he’s close to leaving?
He doesn’t.
He knocks, waits a matter of seconds, then knocks again. And he doesn’t stop.
I wait five minutes, holding the newspaper in place in front of me, having long forgotten where on the page my attention was. I have yet to make any noise at all, yet he’s still there, still knocking. I’m expecting him to walk over to the living room window and peer in, looking for any signs of life. If he were to do that, the game would be up and I would have to speak to him. That’s what I would do if I were the one at the door, as it would be more logical than knocking without end.
And yet, that’s what he goes on to do.
30 minutes in, and something changes. The knocking increases in volume. It’s gradual, but given that it’s the only sound I’ve had around me all this time, it’s noticeable. He is knocking louder than before. Surely that’s going to wear out the strength in his hand, even if he alternates hands between knocks? He may possibly wear his skin off if he increases any further and doesn’t slow down.
For the first time since he went beyond my sight, I think about his intentions. What is he currently thinking? What is his plan? He’s shown how eager he is to speak to me, even if he has no proof that I am nearby to observe his eagerness, but surely he can’t be planning to repeat this stubborn knocking forever. Well, I feel capable of meeting his challenge, as I am quite comfortable, and happy to remain sitting here for the time being.
Another 30 minutes, exactly 1 hour to the second from when he first arrived, and the knocking has now taken on the form of banging. He must be using the side of his fist instead of his flat knuckles now. The letterbox is rattling loudly with each thump, it’ll come clean off at this rate. I interpret this change in strategy as a sign that he’s getting desperate and is close to giving in. At least that’s how I choose to read the situation around me.

6 hours in, and the sun has now passed through the sky such that there is no natural light left in my living room. At least something about my surroundings has changed, because otherwise the man at the door and myself are both in the same positions. The only other change is that I was able to set the newspaper down on the couch beside me. Luckily his knocks are on a steady rhythm, so I was able to time my movements to hide any rustling noises.
I now face a more serious dilemma, as I need to use my toilet. Unfortunately, my washroom is right next to my front door, so the act of using it will involve walking towards my visitor, and no doubt make the sort of noises that cannot be disguised or hidden. After pondering the situation for a few moments, and very quickly ruling out defecating myself on the couch, I decide this farce has gone on long enough. I get up and switch the living room lights on, which he will no doubt see. I then move into the hallway, forcefully opening the dividing door and slamming it behind me. This is my decision: let this man know that I am home, and have been all this time. Let him know that I’ve been aware of him from the start, and yet still I will not answer the door to him. Perhaps then he will get the message that he’s not welcome here.
Once I turn the hall light on, and have the front door in my sight, I suddenly see the visual information that I was missing from the living room.
As well as two small trickles of blood coming in under the doorway (he really did tear the skin off his hands!) I notice the top most door hinge has been blown off by the knocking. This hasn’t created enough space for him to see in, although he could just as easily peer through the letterbox hole, which he has also blown off with his strength, as predicted.
Suddenly I realise the full extent of what my visitor is capable of, and what he really wants from me.
He could break the door down if he wanted to, as he clearly has the strength for it. Some forceful shoves from his shoulder would break the entire thing in. I see now, from the state of my hallway in front of me, that this is not what he really wants. His ultimate goal is for me to open the door to him, to face him of my own choosing, and to hear what he has to say. His business is not with the building I live in, his business is with me, and he wants me to engage with him. Perhaps he knew all along I was inside, maybe he didn’t even need any evidence that I was home. I think he really was prepared to wait all this time, never stopping with the knocks. On that note, the knocking didn’t stop when I entered the hallway, it continued. Every bang on the door reaffirming the resilience of the man on the other side, reinforcing the fact that he is not going away no matter what I do.
I reconsider my own course of actions. I could call for help, but what is he even guilty of? As long as he stays out there, he has committed no crime. Perhaps I could escape out a window and flee to a different part of town, a hotel, possibly? Yet a part of me somehow understands I won’t escape him, he will follow me and find me. Maybe he won’t even budge from my front door, he’ll just keep knocking and I’ll never escape the sound of it wherever I go.
Having weighed up what I can and cannot accept about this situation, I decide I will test this man’s patience as far as I can. I have food inside my house, and he’s out there with nothing. If he really intends to stay there as long as he can, then surely I can outlast him. Even if it takes a few days for him to give up, I just need to bide my time until then.
So it goes, I continue about the rest of my day as normal, free of having to pretend I’m not home. I cook a pleasant meal for myself in the evening, read my current novel and watch some of my regularly scheduled television shows before going to bed. All of this is accompanied by the insidious knocking. I would have hoped it would fade into the background sounds of my home, perhaps being drowned out by the boiling kettle or television, but no. No matter how much noise I make, turning the television up as loud as I can, the knocking never stops, nor does it escape my conscious mind. However, I am managing to acclimatise to the situation, the noise itself is irritating but otherwise I’m comfortable and making the most of my day. When I think about this, in contrast with my visitor, who is out in the cold injuring his hands, then I feel confident in my position, and that I will win out over him in the end.
It’s when I go upstairs to bed that everything changes.

It is now the dead of night, everything else is still. I have been lying in bed for several hours, very exhausted, and yet I haven’t been able to get to sleep. The reason why is obvious. The knocking continues, except now I have nothing with which to distract myself. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind in preparation for sleep. However, I can only achieve this for a few seconds of silence, before the banging forcefully brings me back to full consciousness. Even if I try blocking my ears, I can very faintly feel the knocks coming through my mattress, which is no longer comfortable to lie on.
I lose all track of time in this state. Minutes or hours may have passed. With my body desperate for the sleep it can’t obtain, my heart rate increases, my body begins sweating and my mind races. All I can think about now is the multitude of ways this is going to end. When will he give up? When will I sleep? Will one of those outcomes happen without the other? What has he left to do? What have I? In the silence between knocks, I reassure myself that this is the moment where my visitor will give up and leave, which helps me continue with my current course of action. Surely he must be getting tired at this rate? If not, where does this level of persistence come from? Is he even human?
I lose all track of the passage of time, but after lying restlessly in bed long enough that the sun starts to seep in through the window, I turn and glance at the clock. Not only have I been awake for the entire night, but also 5 minutes from now will be a full 24 hours since my visitor first arrived. The man has outperformed my own expectations by spending an entire day and night knocking at the door. I may need to spend today strategizing, considering what I should do if I really run out of food before he gives in.
Then it hits, and everything comes to an end.
Another set of three knocks, yet again, only the force of them is significantly stronger than before. Even at full strength, a man like him shouldn’t be physically capable of hitting the door the way he does this time. Each individual knock sends a shockwave through my house, rattling all of the furniture, even those fixed to the wall. The three knocks cascade, creating a tremor that increases in strength, and then increases once more. On the third knock, the entire house shakes. All of the furniture is forcibly thrown from its positions: cupboards fly open and spill their contents, tables are thrown over, smashing all of the crockery spilling from them, and all of the windows shatter inwards. All of this happens so fast that I have little time to react to the rest of the house, as the third and final knock throws my bed from its position, being sent nearly halfway across the room, flipped onto its side in the process. With me still on it, I am thrust into the air, and without any time to scream, I land face up on the floor, hitting the back of my head on the upturned bedside table, on the way down.
I lie on the floor for only a moment or two, in complete shock at what has just happened. It only takes another moment to realise that the back of my head is now wet, and I can feel the wetness spreading to my neck, some sort of puddle is now on the floor under my head. I place a finger to where I feel pain and look at my hands: blood. I’ve suffered a concussion, and with my heart rate already at an increased rate, I’m starting to feel dizzy.
Enough is enough.
I said I was prepared to do anything to avoid encountering the man below, but I didn’t expect my life would be at risk through that decision. I did not expect to put myself in danger, but now that I am in serious pain, I realise there’s no choice in the matter. I need to get out my front door and seek medical help, Whether that man wants to help me, get in my way, or do nothing, I simply have to get past him, whatever it takes.
I slowly get up and stagger out of my bedroom into the hallway, and begin hobbling towards the door, my dizziness making it difficult to remain upright or walk straight. I’m not focussing on much else besides reaching my door, which has become difficult with the debris and shattered glass around me that I now need to navigate, but the one thing that strikes me is that the knocking has finally stopped. Perhaps the man can hear me coming, and has sensed the change in my intent. Or perhaps, those fatal three knocks were intended as the final set, this was always going to be his endgame.
I don’t make it.

While coming down the stairs, I lose my balance, lose my grip on the handrail, and fall down the remaining half of the stairs, landing face first in the hallway, in front of the door. I can feel my consciousness slipping, and the blood pulsing faster on my head wound. I can feel it running down the side of my head. I am not going to make it and I am running out of time. With my depleting strength, I instinctively call out ‘help’. I’m not expecting anyone to hear, nor am I bothered who hears, all I care about is that if there is someone who is there, they will come to my aid, however slim the chances. I certainly wasn’t thinking about the man outside. I wouldn’t have expected him to help at all, and honestly I have no idea if he’s still there just now.
Except he enters through the front door the second I call out. He casually opens the door and strides in. I don’t notice any sign of the lock turning, which is bizarre as I’m sure it’s been locked all this time.
As I am still face down, I muster up what little energy I have and lift my head up to look at him. I wonder what he will say to me, if he will try to help me or ignore my predicament and talk to me about why he arrived here yesterday, speaking as if it’s still the previous morning. Personally, I don’t even think about how far I’ve gone to avoid talking to him, or how pointless my efforts have all been as I now do everything I can to look directly at his face.
To my complete shock, in spite of being afraid of him all of this time, my gaze meets a face of sympathy. The man does not say anything, nor does he do anything except stand over me, bloody hands now thrust in his pockets. As he does this, he just looks at me with sorrowful eyes, conveying a sense of grief, as if he has received some personally upsetting news. I see a shimmer in his eyes, he even appears to be resisting the urge to cry.
He doesn’t need to say anything. His eyes communicate it all. It’s then that I realise it’s too late and it was all for nothing.
His eyes let me see how sorry he feels for me. Perhaps he can tell that medical help is too far away and there is no point trying to save me, but I don’t think that’s the main concern on his mind. The main thing his face communicates to me is a question: ‘Why?’ He never wanted to be in this situation with me, he just wanted me to answer the door, it may not have been easy but at least it would have avoided this scenario we’re now stuck in, with fatal consequences for myself. In this moment, I think of several excuses beyond simply saying ‘I’m sorry’, but I don’t speak anything out loud, leaving our only exchange with each other a silent one.
The reality is that I never thought that far ahead, I never thought it would ever come to this. All I cared about from one moment to the next was to avoid answering the door. As long as the consequences were minimal, I was able to accept what I needed to do. It was only when I realised how serious the danger was, by which point it was too late, that I tried to act. In doing so, I had sleepwalked into the danger without realising it.
I regret my actions, but even now, wanting to apologise, wanting to have a discussion about this, I am once again too late. I find my head slowly lowering back to the ground, and my eyes close on their own. The man stands over me in this moment, I hope that he can understand my final thoughts. Whether he does or not, it shouldn’t matter anymore but it bothers me as I finally lose consciousness.
In my final moment, the last thing I notice is my own heartbeat; it is now beating in sets of three. The knocking on the door may have stopped, but I still couldn’t escape it, as it has become a part of me. Even as my heart slows down and finally stops, it maintains beating in threes. The knocking has followed me to the very end, serving as one final reminder that all I ever had to do was open the door. All I ever had to do was face him. And I couldn’t.
It’s too late to reverse the situation. Far too late.
I go. In silence.

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