There is Nothing

Nothing worse than a door that opens itself.

I wake up. It’s still the early hours of the morning, and the bedroom is dressed in darkness. I check the time. 4:30 am. It’s frustrating since I still have two hours before I need to get up and prepare for work. I’m restless, but my partner is in a deep sleep. So I roll onto my left side and try again to get comfy. It’s no use. I stare at the barely ajar door as my partner snores behind me.

It swings open in a fluid motion. Now I’m awake and questioning. My mind races, caught between superstition and scepticism. I suppose I should be thankful. It’s an hour or so past the witching hour. Perhaps it’s just a draft from outside. The door is usually stiff, though; it requires force to even move it at the best of times. I face my fear and get out of bed. I only wear pyjama bottoms, so my upper half feels the sudden chill from leaving the warm embrace of my partner. I step out of the room and onto the landing. The moon’s light is my only guide since my right side is where my partner works. It’s pitch black. I slowly go down the stairs to the living room. Here, the darkness is thick. Anything can hide in a shadow. I’m still on edge. I’m not the fearful sort, but there’s something about an otherwise empty house that makes you easily unsettled. I check the front door first, it’s colder in the porch than anywhere else. The door is locked.

I return back to the living room and go into the kitchen. The only thing breaking the darkness is the blue hue of the microwave. I move around the cluttered table and test the side door. Also locked. I feel relieved but still uncertain. I’ve lived here only a short while. The bedroom seldom opens by itself. I retrace my steps, climb up the stairs and get back into bed. I leave the door open. I go back to sleep. Even if it’s futile.

There is nothing.