The Face

It wasn't until the disappearance of the keychain I had purposely put on my nightstand last night that I realized I wasn't entirely alone in this house.

10 p.m.

I turned off both lights in the living room and tugged a metal door jam under the handle. I had my car keys and apartment keys all in one chain. As my eyes glanced to the left and landed on the tree rack where my bags, hats, and coats were hung, I reached for the top branch. I had been putting my keys there every now and then—by the door—that's what most people do. But yesterday, a thought stopped me.

I thought about the intruders in my dreams. If one was to break in through the windows, I'd rather have my keys up for grab. With my silver Ford explorer parking right outside, I'd press on the alarm should anything happened.

That was exactly what I did.

I locked the door to my bedroom and put another door jammer underneath. Between the green tree rack and the beige nightstand, I took a moment to decide, and at last, dropped my keys right next to a coffee mug.

I remembered it keenly for the lengthy time I took to make that decision.

As usually, I turned off the lamp in the corner as the soft night light soothingly glow up in the dark. I returned to my bed and tugged myself underneath the soft, heavy blanket.

Dreamless, as always.

8 a.m.

At exactly 8, my phone screamed out the bloody wake-up alarm—Beeeeeeep! Each noise sharp and long. Casting away monsters from my dream. Sometimes I fear that half of my soul might have fled at its golden roar. My eyes were still closed when I reached up over my head to turn it off. Between my sleepy cat pillow and the regular one, my phone was nowhere to be found. I had remembered putting it there before bed. I had a habit of listening to tv shows drifting asleep. Perhaps the phone had dropped under the bed. It happens. So I thought.

Down the metal frame of my bed, I found the source of this horrifying, relentless ring on my mixed-colored carpet.

I reached to turn it off and proceeded to the rest of my morning routine. I must have gone through a whole lot of things before I came to the front door and reached for the tree rack. The key wasn't there, but I knew why. I had put it on my nightstand the day before.

I knew it.

I walked across the room to get the keys. The tidy bear coffee mug was sitting exactly where I remembered, so did the towel that folded neatly, but the keys weren't there.

Did they fall under the bed just like my phone?

I got on my knees and looked, but it was empty.

Perhaps I had left my keys on the tree rack?

No, they weren't there either.

Did I really put them on my nightstand?

I did.

I remembered the whole deciding process. I hadn't had it moved.

At least, it wasn't me who did it.

Minutes quickly rolled by, and I had to find my keys. Except that I had no clue of its whereabouts.

Where could it be?

I searched everywhere: the dining room table where I had a cup of milk and a banana, the sink where I brushed my teeth, the kitchen where I lingered and made coffee, the tree rack by the door.

The keychain was nowhere to be found.

I put on my jacket. Time didn't allow me to pursue the hunt of a lost item. The least I could do was to rush to work by bus. I reached down into my side pocket. As my fingers touched the straight, solid edge. My heart dropped back into my chest. At least my cards were where I remembered them to be.

I darted out the door, leaving the apartment unlocked. I reached into my coat pocket as usual, passing by my car, and that was when I touched a chain of sharp metal things.

I pulled out my keychain and unlocked the door.

That was strange.

Have I accidentally put them in my coat?

Perhaps. Morning before coffee was always a time of confusion. Strange things happen.

I unlocked the car door and rolled out into the parking lot, then I realized that I couldn't have put the keychain in my coat. I didn't touch my coat until the moment before I walked out of the front door.

So who did?

I had no idea, but I thought I'd pay my apartment a close visit at lunch hour. All morning, I couldn't think about anything else. The mystery was killing me. I kept thinking that someone broke in, but how? I had locked all the windows and put on door jammers. For an intruder to get into my bedroom without breaking the door would be through the only window next to my bed. But how? It was locked and bolted. I rechecked every night. I didn't believe that a person could break in without causing much noise.

But indeed, I had been having this dream of someone living in my apartment for long. It started two years before. I dreamed of a strange man walking out of my bedroom. I didn't perceive him as threat, but the horror sneaked in as my mind woke up to realize what had happened yet my heavy and awakened body laid soundly in the bed. I told myself to wake up. But my eyes were so heavy. I meant to scream and slap myself up, but I couldn't snap out of the dreaming state.

A few months ago, I dreamed of a woman climbing through the half-opened window of my kitchen. I attempted to stop her, but her arm jammed the window and caught in the way.

I was almost convinced that there were someone else living in my old apartment.

But I hadn't had these dreams nor feelings once I moved here. Here, I lived on the ground level of an old building.

At lunch hour, I rushed back to my apartment, but before I entered, I saw IT, or perhaps, I should call IT "Mrs. Harrison," a fate name popped up in my head in the face I saw in the reflection of my kitchen window. She was holding my cooking pan, wearing a yellow-pink floral apron. She had some whites in her hair. She hummed a song while cracking two eggs into the pan—the exact thing I'd do.

I drew out my key to open the door, but I realized I didn't lock it when I went out this morning. I put the key in anyway. Turning it to the right, I heard a click of a lock unlocking. Strange.

I walked through the front door with the feeling that Mrs. Harrison wasn't really there in my kitchen, even though I saw her in the reflection. And like I had suspected, she wasn't there making eggs the way I do it in my kitchen. She was just a reflection of my own tired mind.

But I couldn't shake this feeling that she was standing right behind me, though I could not see. I thought she asked, "eggs, dear?"

I nodded before I shook my head.

Then I thought I heard her say, "I put your keys in your pocket. It's safer that way. Oh, and I lock the door after you left."

I said "thanks" before sitting down at the dinning table. I smelled ham and milk, blueberries and strawberries cut up in pieces, though I couldn't have been.

The dining table was empty the way I left it.