Don't Turn Around

Don’t Turn Around

There is something behind me.

I know this

in the same way old houses know rain,

in the same way dogs lift their heads

before thunder bothers to introduce itself.

Nothing has touched me.

That is the problem.

Touch would be proof,

and proof would be useful.

Proof can be shouted about,

written down,

reported to someone in a sensible cardigan

who nods and says,

“Yes, that does sound concerning.”

But this thing is clever.

It stays in the not-quite-place.

Three steps behind.

Just outside the yellow porch light.

Breathing with the fridge motor.

Waiting in the pause

between the kettle clicking off

and the house remembering to creak.

The chickens felt it first.

Of course they did.

Mabel froze near the biscuit tin,

one foot lifted,

eye sharp as a bead of black glass.

Huxley made that awful little noise

chickens make

when the world has gone sideways

but no one has authorised panic yet.

The dog would not come inside.

The cat stared over my shoulder

with the personal cruelty

only cats and small children possess.

And there,

between the therapy chair

and the door,

stood Harold.

Not loudly.

Elephants can be surprisingly quiet

when they are not in the mood

to explain themselves.

He took up half the room,

as usual,

one grey ear folded like an old blanket,

his trunk resting near the Arnott’s tin

with far too much innocence

for someone who had clearly checked

whether the lid was loose.

Harold did not look at me.

That was worse.

He looked behind me.

The way guardians look

when they have decided

you are not ready

to see what they are seeing.

And I, brave woman,

educated woman,

woman with bills,

forms,

a dodgy hip,

and laundry in the machine,

stood in my hallway

holding a butter knife

like Excalibur.

There is something behind me.

It is not running.

Running things are honest.

This one walks when I walk.

Stops when I stop.

Leans close enough

for the back of my neck

to remember it has nerves.

Harold shifted his weight.

The floor did not creak.

That frightened me most of all.

I tell myself it is trauma.

I tell myself it is the wind.

I tell myself the brain is a funny old goat

and fear likes to dress up

when the lights are low.

Still, I do not turn.

Because some things only become real

when given a face.

Because looking is an invitation.

Because every woman knows

there are doors you close gently,

voices you answer politely,

and footsteps you pretend not to hear

until you are safely inside

with the bolt turned,

the kettle on,

and every blessed biscuit counted.

Behind me,

the floorboard sighs.

Not under my foot.

Behind me.

Harold reaches past me

with his great impossible trunk

and presses the hallway door shut.

Softly.

Politely.

Firmly.

The thing on the other side

breathes once

through the crack.

Then it leaves.

Or pretends to.

Harold turns to me then,

eyes ancient and wet and annoyed,

as if to say

some of us are trying very hard

to keep you alive,

and you are making it difficult.

I keep walking.

Slowly.

Calmly.

Like someone who has not noticed.

Like someone who has learned

that survival is sometimes

letting Harold stand between you

and the dark,

without asking him

what he had to become

to make the dark afraid.