Hey, Boo.

Initially, I gave the front door a quick rattle. You could have mistaken it for the wind. A classic scare tactic, though I wasn’t trying to frighten him. Not then. I simply hoped it might prompt him to get up and open it – take a peek outside. And that was all I needed.

An opportunity.

It didn’t work, though I wasn’t too concerned. I’m known for my patience. Floating through eternity will do that to you. So, I continued to push against the door panel, daily, fluctuating my weight on and off, on and off, each time increasing the pressure until the wood hammered against the bones of the frame. By day seven, it was a violent symphony. A cacophony of oak against mahogany.

It was amazing how long he put up with it; hardly seeming to note the noise whatsoever. He really tested my skills. Wasn’t easy to unsettle. Though this seemed less about fortitude and more about a basic lack of awareness. Remarkable.

Eventually, on day eight, I watched from afar as he lifted his head and cocked it to one side, turning towards my concerto, before picking up a blanket from the sofa and lobbing it against the bottom of the door.

And that was no help at all.

He was a funny little man. It was an open-plan house (great for me as an observer, of course) - small and potentially cosy, yet drab and uncared for. Framed prints remained propped against the skirting board in an optimistic hint at future picture hanging, patiently gathering dust. He seemed to have just one plate, two mugs, and a single set of cutlery. There were few personal knick-knacks that I could see, and the curtains, chairs, and solitary rug were various tatty shades of grey and blue. No patterns.

At the window, I would watch him and his daily routine. Observing him in his habitat. He got up every day around 6.30, wandering about the kitchen, all crotch scratches and yawns. He wore the same red boxers each time, and I hoped he had several pairs, given that the washing machine was only ever in use on a Sunday morning at ten.

He had a particular system with his breakfast tea, which involved a glass teapot, an enormous china mug, and some sort of timer. Not something I can say I’d ever seen amongst the dozen or so other people I’ve shadowed; it was probably the most interesting thing about him. Every morning, as it brewed, he would do a series of leg stretches against the kitchen counter, sometimes accompanied by gloriously impressive farts.

Then he’d sit in his favourite armchair, drink his tea at a leisurely pace, and fiddle with his phone. I liked to imagine he was reading the news, but it might as easily have been something less savoury. I would watch him from this distance, as best I could. Storing it all up. Taking note of those details that might come in handy one day. I’m good at my job. I take pride in it.

On a weekday, he’d sprint upstairs at 8.20 am, before returning in a smart shirt and jogging pants, barefoot, then firing up his computer. Around ten, he’d make coffee in a cafetiere, racing to take a laughably speedy shower while it brewed. Then back to work – whatever it was he did. Alone. Silent. Staring at that one rectangular screen.

Weekends, he’d simply fall back to sleep from 8 until 10, no doubt maintaining the strange doublethink of convincing himself he’d still ‘got up early.’

Occasionally, he would go out, on what I supposed was a trip to the shops, and I liked to imagine – or hope – some form of socialising or fresh air. But for someone with such particular tastes in tea and coffee, his diet was the frozen variety, and these excursions were rare. So far, in the time I’d been watching him, this had only happened twice, and both times I had been unprepared, skulking too far away from the door and unable to make it before it slammed behind him. Besides, I didn’t much fancy coming out by day. Night-time is much more my realm.

As you can imagine.

I was desperate to break us both out of this pitiful routine. This had gone on too long. I was starting to feel inadequate. Granted, perhaps my presence might not be the type of excitement he may crave, but I was sure it would give him a kick up the bum, too, and at least something new to put in the text messages he seemed to spend most evenings crafting. Who knows, maybe he’d lift the phone to his ear and speak to someone.

It had been twenty-one days, and I’d never even caught the sound of his voice.

But it was nigh impossible to get a reaction. After my door banging failed, I moved on to the windows, tapping. Cold, hard fingernails rippling on the glass. He didn’t even lift his head. Huh. I tried speeding up, scuttering the tips of my fingers, rhythmically, like a rodent’s feet along the panes. A riot of pitter-patters and beats. But nothing.

Several days later, boredom had shifted my accidental music to ridiculous levels, Beethoven’s Fifth forming a medley with the A-Team’s theme tune. He didn’t notice a thing.

I had to step up my game. I decided to pull out all the stops.

It was time to turn the door handle.

Now, shifting metal is much harder than you might think. It’s not like the movies. It’s an exhausting experience for folks like me, and one that takes energy and focus. We can’t just go around turning knobs and lifting latches at the drop of a hat, you know. I need several days of rest – physical and mental – to even consider it.

I kept an eye on the weather, wanting a still night where the creak of metal wouldn’t be lost amongst a jumble of gusts or raindrops. I waited until there was silence – no music, no television, none of those ghastly videos playing on his phone as they sometimes did. I considered my moment carefully. Decided to make my move once he was standing by the kitchen counter. That gave him a perfect line of sight to the door, and me a great view of him. He was leaning against the countertop, waiting for his oven chips to cook. Staring into space. As he often did.

I took the plunge, wrapping my long fingers about the handle slowly, stretching them, curling about the metal like bindweed, desperately hoping to sense the cold of the lever against my form. I closed my eyes. Digging deep. And, yes! I felt it turn – just half an inch, but enough to scrape the iron against the catch and give a perceptible jump as the handle snapped back up.

From the window, I squinted across the space to see him. He had turned his head. I tried again.

This time, I yanked the handle lower and rattled it with a flourish, allowing a series of mechanical sounds to puncture the air as the internal mechanism fought against the lock. Of course, it was locked. It always was. But at least this provided sound effects.

His hands fell to the surface, and his jaw plopped open in unison, like a bargain basement zombie.

Did I have it in me to try once more? I must. I must. I needed this door open, and I couldn’t do it without his help. I’d had enough of watching. Both of us, enduring days of solitude and routine and computers and mobile phones, and silence. Silence. I needed this. We both did. I needed him to open the door. I craved drama.

I managed one more rattle before I was done. Exhausted. Weak. But pitiful as this was, it was enough to move him. He stepped back suddenly, the fastest I had ever known him to move, clattering against the stove and setting his pan of peas off kilter. He lifted his fingers to his face, still slack-jawed and gawping.

Then it happened. He rushed across the room. He was coming. The portal would be open. I would finally have my moment. It was in both our interests, I was sure. It was time.

He came towards it, stride verging on a run, jogging pants flapping and wrapping about his shins, bare feet slipping on the vinyl floor. This was it. Surely, this was it.

But as he reached the doorway, he veered to the left, grabbing the edge of the desk and sliding it towards the entrance in a racket, leads and appliances tangling and resisting as they went. Aghast, I watched as he wedged it against the entrance, grabbing his chair for extra weight, before propping his monitor under the handle itself to keep it steady.

My hope dissolved into the air.

That was it.

We were both locked in now. Trapped. Forever.

Me, and the most tedious man I had ever haunted, who didn’t seem to understand – no matter how I tried – that I was only trying to leave.