That which Could Be

Sometimes the familiar isn’t familiar enough. As I come home with my dog after an early morning walk, the same door that would normally welcome me back pushes me away with an ominous presence. Cold winds swirl before me, rustling fall leaves before my feet, but the chill I feel comes from within. I delay the inevitable by snapping some photos of white wooden door, its fire-like glow radiating into the blue of early morning. The warmth contrasts with the cold dread that burns like dry ice in my chest.

We’ve all been trained to fear what lies behind closed doors, I think. The mortal terror tied to each touch of a doorknob, the sharp-sucked breath as you swing the wooden portal open; it’s a simple acknowledgement that you do not know what lies on the other side. You never really do.

You never really know how much longer you have.

Murderers wait with pounding hearts for their victims to return. Spirits that inhabited this old house long before you were born wait for you to cross the threshold, their patience spent. Perhaps the monster in the closet that creaks in the night has finally broken free, and now naught but your foolish desire to come into the warmth of home keeps him at bay. So much can lurk behind a closed door, and you are nothing more than the Schrödinger’s cat of human mortality.

I shake my head. I try the doorknob; still locked tight by my own key. Alas, not enough comfort to still my frantic heart.

There were other possibilities too within that house, ones that were less fantastical and more fatally banal. But most people don’t hesitate to go into their own home because there could be fatal levels of carbon monoxide. Most people don’t tremble at the door jamb because of the possibility of a gas leak, or a future fire as they sleep. It’s much easier to fear the impossible, the implausible, and the evil than to come to the reality that you could die to suit the whims of an uncaring universe. We like to have someone to blame, even if those someones are ourselves.

My dog whines, but she’s always a little timid. She probably just wants to go inside where she knows it’s warm, where she thinks it’s safe. Perhaps she just wanted another loop around that old church that we’re never sure is inhabited. Or, perhaps, she’s a little more intuitive than I give her credit for. Could she know something?

Nonsense. It’s cold, and I’m tired. I want to go back to sleep in my warm bed and hand the dice of my life back to an indifferent fate. I try the knob one more time (to be sure) and then reach for my key. In it goes. The tumblers echo click, click, click, far too fast for my liking. I turn the key with a final thunk. The seal is broken.

I open the door. The dog doesn’t want to follow, sitting stalwart outside despite my firmness on her lead. She’s just being stubborn, right? I walk inside, breathe out the cold air, breathe in the warmth. She still won’t follow. I think back to the photograph I’d just taken moments ago. Those moments now felt like eons. If i checked it again, would I see something that I hadn’t noticed before? Would it be me, the fool, throwing my dice into the fire when I could have known better?

I breathe in the warmth, but now it feels cold.

The dog walks through the door and sits on the mat, looking at me. The church bells chime for six o’clock. As I hang up my thick wool coat, the fear drips away like so much morning dew. I am home. Safe and sound, at least for now.