For Halloween, Here's Little Things

Little Things by Susan Buffum, (2018)

It’s always the little things. That’s what they say. All those little things. They add up. They add up over a period of time, right? So they say.

Like, moving to a new town, for instance. Well, okay, that’s a big thing, moving. Leaving the familiar. Jumping into the unknown with both feet. Starting a new job. Another big thing. Learning your way around a new place. Big. Making new friends. Big thing. I get that. I’m a nervous person by nature. It’s my disposition to be nervous in unfamiliar places, doing unfamiliar things, being among unfamiliar people. I’m nervous about all that, but those are all big things. I get nervous about the big stuff. I don’t usually get nervous about little things.

At least, I didn’t used to get nervous about them. But I’m getting more and more nervous now. Nervouser. No, that’s not a real word, but it describes how I feel. Anxious. I feel anxious. Really anxious.

All right, so, little things. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s all those little things that start to add up and grate on your nerves. For instance, the lock on my apartment door. Sometimes it’s fine. Sometimes it seems to stick. You know, you put your key in the lock and twist it and sometimes it turns nice and smooth, but at other times it’s like there’s some force, some physical force standing on the other side of the door counteracting your attempts to unlock the door. You try and you try, and the key should be, like, getting warmer and warmer between your fingers from all the exertion you’re putting into unlocking the door, but the funny thing is, and you’re probably not going to believe me here, but the key seems to get colder and colder. I mean it gets so cold it hurts my fingers so I have to pull them away and blow on them to warm them up, and then hold the key wrapped in a fold of my jacket…and then it’s like whatever force was there just stops, or steps back, so the lock turns easily and I practically fall into the entryway, stumbling like I’ve had a few too many at the corner bar. You know how you turn on the lights, swing the door shut and examine the lock to see if you can figure out what was preventing the key from turning all that time. You twist that little button-thing on the latch that slides the deadbolt in and out and there’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. It twists just fine.

Little things.

Here’s another example, another thing. Sometimes I wake up at night and I smell gas. I don’t do much cooking. I get takeout or pick up premade stuff from the corner market and just reheat it in the microwave when I’m hungry. My appetite hasn’t been what it was when I first moved here. I’ve lost a lot of weight. I used to be pretty big, but now my clothes are falling off of me. So, anyway, I don’t cook. I maybe heat a pan of water once in a blue moon to make a mug of instant coffee or a cup of tea. I’m always careful with the burners. My grandmother nearly blew up our house when I was little, after she’d moved in with us. She had Alzheimer’s. We tried to keep her out of the kitchen, but sometimes we lost track of her, especially at night when she’d wander around. She turned the burner on and off, on and off a thousand times, because she liked the flames. She always had this thing about the blue ring of flames. One night, she left the gas on and the house filled up with that awful stink. She could have blown us all up in our sleep. I know I always turn the burner off. I’m kind of OCD about it, turning the burner on and off, leaning close and sniffing to make sure I don’t smell gas. So, explain to me how the gas gets turned on and the whole place reeks of it some mornings?

Is that a little thing? Finding the gas on when you know you didn’t turn it on? Or, is that a big thing, like a life threatening sort of thing? A big thing? Well, it’s just one burner. Little thing. Yeah, it’s a little thing.

And the soap, the bar of soap in the tub. I always find it on the bottom of the tub, not in the dish where I know I leave it when I finish my shower. So, if I’m leaving it in the dish, why am I finding it on the bottom of the tub right where I’m going to put my foot when I next step into the tub? How does it get out of the soap dish? It’s not like it has tiny little legs and crawls out of the dish like it’s trying to escape and it falls over the edge or whatever. It’s almost like someone is getting into my apartment and deliberately placing the bar of soap on the bottom of the tub so I’ll step on it, slip, fall, and break my neck. But no one can get in when the door is locked, right? I mean, it’s a deadbolt lock. And who would want me to fall and get hurt or killed? I hardly know anyone here. I’ve only lived here four, no, five months. Five months, one week and three days to be exact. I just verified that on the wall calendar. I only know a couple people in the office where I work. I’ve only met one neighbor, a nice old lady named Millie or Nellie, or something like that. She has a Pomeranian that yaps at me all the time. It tried to pee on my leg once and she scolded it, tugging its leash hard. I thought she was going to choke the poor thing, but its eyes, I guess, naturally bug out like that. It’s how it looks all the time, but I didn’t know that then. She and the dog have nothing to do with the soap. My co-workers don’t know where I live. Unless they Googled me, but why would anyone do that? I’m nobody of interest, but you never know. The world is full of snoops and voyeurs these days.

But, anyway, so it’s just another little thing.

At night I hear footsteps. It sounds like someone’s pacing around in the living room, back and forth along the hallway outside my door. I called the cops three separate times for this and every time there was no one in the apartment. Now, I just fold the pillow over my ear and try to ignore it. I complained to the landlord but he said the building must have weird acoustics, that the guy upstairs might be an insomniac who paces around his apartment over mine and I hear it in my apartment like he’s right outside the door and in my living room. Maybe I should get to know my neighbors so I can ask them if the same thing happens in their apartments, hearing stuff from upstairs like it’s happening in your own apartment.

Okay, and then there’s that mark on the floor. I don’t know what it is, but it looks sort of like an unshod horse’s hoof mark or maybe a cow’s. It could be a cow’s. Or maybe a deer’s? But how would a deer get into a third floor apartment? It’s on the floor just inside the balcony door. I’ve got a little balcony. It’s just big enough for a café table and two chairs, but I don’t have anything out there because I have asthma, so I don’t like to sit outside and breathe in exhaust fumes, cigar smoke from the guy next door, and those invisible fumes from the factories along the river and all the chemical smells and stuff. I don’t even open the door, but I notice the mark when I mop the floor. It looks like someone burnt the hoof print into the wood. Well, I don’t know if this is real wood or laminate or whatever, but the mark is black and sort of looks like a deer, or goat, or whatever, tiptoed in, kind of stepping on the front part of its hoof because the back part is less distinct. I can’t wash it off. I’ve even tried bleach, but it’s still there. Maybe I’ll get a throw rug or something to cover it. It just bothers me. I don’t know why it’s there or what could have caused it. It’s just another of those little things that have been getting under my skin.

An irritant. That’s what it is. It irritates me.

Little things. All these little things.

Oh, and did I mention yet the sensation of someone breathing down the back of my neck when I’m sitting in my chair reading at night? It’s not a draft. It’s not a stirring of air from a ceiling vent or whatever. It’s warm and humid like it would be if a real live person was standing behind the chair with their face close to the back of my head just breathing their hot breath down the back of my neck. But there’s never anyone there, of course. It’s just another little thing I can’t explain to anyone without that person looking at me as if I’m crazy.

I’m not crazy. This is all real stuff that’s happening to me. All these little things going on since I moved in. Oh, and the shadows! I see shadows from the corner of my eye, like there’s someone there and they move, but when I turn my head or jump up and go running into the kitchen or down the hallway there’s never anyone there. No one can get in. I’ve told myself that a million times. The doors are securely locked. The windows, even on the third floor, have bars, probably so kids and cats and small dogs, which are allowed here in the apartments, can’t fall out. I know there is no one here but me. Yet, all these little things keep happening so that I feel I might be going crazy, but I’m really not crazy because if I was, then someone would have noticed that by now and mentioned it to me, I would hope.

It all just makes me terribly anxious and nervous. I sleep with the lights on now. My electric bill is ridiculous. That’s why I can’t afford groceries. That’s why I’m losing weight. That’s why I’m so jumpy and skittish at work when people come up behind me, even if it’s just to drop off mail or ask me a question about an account of whatever. I practically jump out of my chair or spin around as if I’m under attack.

So, yes, I did have a letter opener clutched in my fist just the other day when Roger came up and tapped me on the shoulder, startling me. But in my defense, I had been opening my mail at the time. The letter opener had already been in my hand. I hadn’t grabbed it with the intention of stabbing him. It was just a reflexive action. He’d grabbed my wrist and said, “Whoa there! There’s no need to kill a fella for wanting to ask if you’d like a cup of coffee!” The letter opener had fallen onto my lap and then slipped off, clattering onto the tiled floor.

But, it had given me an idea. I keep a large knife under my pillow now. I feel more secure knowing it’s there when I try to sleep. It’s just another of those little things, feeling that I need to have a weapon close at hand because suddenly, I feel awfully shaky and vulnerable. I feel as if someone is watching me, messing with my stuff in the apartment, trying to lock me out of my own home at times, lurking just behind me, breathing down my neck, trying to drive me crazy. Trying to drive me out.

And now, it’s the balcony doorknob. It’s rattling again, as if someone is out there trying to get inside. I’ve heard it before. I keep the drapes drawn across the atrium door and full length windows. I’ve seen shadows out there before around twilight time. I thought it might be from the neighbors out on their balconies, but the elderly man next door is short and hunched over, the young woman on the other side of me tall and slender like an anorexic. This shadow had been tall, muscular, and wearing some sort of headdress, maybe? Sort of like Viking horns, only curved downward. I really only got a quick impression of it as I’d jumped up and ran screaming down the hallway to my bedroom, slamming the door, huddling in the closet among a jumble of shoes and sneakers until a persistent knocking on my door had drawn me out. My neighbor had called the police because I had been screaming. I’d been embarrassed and apologized, just saying I had been watching a scary movie on TV and had thought I’d seen something out on the balcony, but it must have just been a reflection of some sort. They had, or course, checked the balcony and found no signs of an intruder. One of them, upon coming back inside, had noticed the mark on the floor, had rubbed the toe of his black boot over it as if trying to erase it, a slight frown creasing his brow, but his partner had announced the place was secure, no signs of anyone having been out on the balcony. He’d double-checked the door to make sure it was locked, then drawn the drapes across the windows and door, told me I should get a small dog to keep me company. And then they’d left.

Tonight, it’s another of those little things that has me crouching in the bathtub, hidden by the shower curtain, the knife from beneath my pillow clutched in my fist, my heart hammering so loud it’s echoing in my ears and I can feel it in the back of my throat. Footsteps. I heard footsteps in the living room. Clop, clop, clop, like that. No one wears wooden shoes in this country. Boot heels? No, not quite like that either. Not high heels, stilettos, dress shoes, or any other kind of foot gear I can think of. It’s different. Like horse hooves clopping in a covered bridge, only not so many clops. Like it’s walking on its hind legs around the room. I can hear it shifting and moving things. And snorting. It’s snorting through its nose. It’s pretty loud. Worse than bad sinuses and allergies. I’ve had that condition all my life.

I’ve heard these footsteps before, but not like this. Not like it’s searching for something. Searching for something? Did I just think that? No, it’s searching for someone. It’s searching for me. I know it is. It’s all these little things. They’re suddenly adding up in my head. The lock resisting my efforts to open it, the soap in the bottom of the tub, the smell of gas from a burner turned on, the footsteps, the hoof print, the breath at the back of my neck, the shadow on the balcony…there’s something here that’s not natural. There’s something in this apartment that wants me to leave!

My hand is shaking. I grip the knife with both hands. The bathroom door knob rattles. The breath catches at the back of my throat. I hear a loud snort. It’s right outside the door! Whatever it is, it’s standing right outside the bathroom door trying to get in! A loud bang, a shoulder thrown against the flimsy wood of the door, makes the entire door shudder and creak. “No!” I cry. “No! Stop! I’ll leave! I’ll go! Stay out of here! Go away! Stay away from me! I’ll leave in the morning! I’ll just go!” A louder snort, a more forceful attempt to break the door down. I scream. I keep screaming. And now there’s hammering behind my head, from the other side of the common wall. My neighbor. I can hear him shouting at me, telling me to shut up! “Help!” I scream. “Call the police!”

“Shut up! Shut up you lunatic! Go back to bed already! People are trying to sleep!” He sounds angry.

The bathroom door cracks loudly. I cringe, drawing myself up into a tight ball at the faucet end of the tub. I shake like a leaf, literally. And I’m crying now, still screaming. A loud thud against the wall and more shouting from my elderly neighbor. He sounds furious now. I scream again as the bathroom door crashes open, a shower of shattered plaster raining to the tile floor, the clop of hooves on tile, the hot snort of air through a long nose, a low snarl.

I scramble up onto my feet, nearly falling through the shower curtain before gaining my footing, kicking the bar of soap to the far end of the tub, huddling against the tiled wall, staring, just staring at the large shadow on the other side of the curtain. I see its long arm reach for the edge of the curtain, my eyes watching the curtain rings that are rattling. I’m keening, “No…no…no…” in a weird, chanting manner, but as the rings sing along the rod as the curtain is abruptly shoved aside, I scream again as I lunge forward with the knife. A reflexive action. A self-preservation action.

Blood…so much blood. It’s forming a pool on the tiled floor where I’ve fallen. The knife I’ve pulled from my own thigh clatters from fingers that feel cold and numb, that are tingling. I’m trying to breathe, but each breath requires effort, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. I hear a snort, a soft snarl. With what strength I have left, I twist my head, tilt it back. There is a shadow in the doorway, a tall dark shadow. I blink. Spots dance in my eyes, the shadow wavers then disappears. There’s nothing there. Nothing.

Little things. Little things, I think as the spots grow larger, blotting my vision like ink stains. Little things add up.

Too late. That thought floats like a whisper through my mind. The accountant in me should have added the sum total sooner. All those… little…things…