His head rushes out of the water and he pauses for a second, his body totally still, the tub now rocked by waves. The knock had been unhesitant, aggressive and loud enough to shock him. Could it be Carmen or Alex? They probably would have called first . . . or maybe it’s the mailman, or a neighbor, or someone confused, or some other improbable event, people come to doors all the time—the knock comes again but much louder this time, like some huge fist is slamming at the door. After a frozen moment Kierk rises out of the tub and wraps himself in a towel. Everything is slowing down. He leaves wet footprints behind him on the tiles to the short corridor leading to the front door. A few steps forward on the cold, slippery wood and then another knock booms and he can see the door shudder on its hinges. He can’t take his eyes off the lock which had vibrated violently but held. Then from the other side of the door there is a guttural grunt, the shifting of some large bulk, a huffing snort. A broad shadow can be seen blotting out the light, a dark line wavering. A form. There is the stamp of something large and almost hoof-like and another snort. Kierk’s eyes are wide, his hair still plastered down, his skin frigid from convection and fear. He is suddenly sure that it is happening again. He braces for sound, for that unearthly hum, but none comes. In the waiting silence he wants to look into the peephole but he can’t, he can’t close that distance and peer through. What would he see? His heart is beating like mad. Paralyzed, he watches the shadow shift with a corresponding creak of weight. Three booming cannon-loud knocks in rapid succession are followed by a tortured vibration afterward. The door holds but now looks as if it is about to splinter into pieces, or the locks rip from their hinges. Then there is an angry huff and the sound of a departure, the quick fading of heavy, plodding footsteps. Kierk suddenly begins breathing again, not knowing he had stopped. He slowly approaches the peephole and looks through to the empty optically curving hallway, and then he turns and sinks down to a sitting position, his back against the door, his flesh wet and flush with goose bumps, his hands trembling, his mind racing over dark, impossible notions.

MONDAY