The 'O' Door

“7pm. And it’s the new Tarantinos on Temple Street. Just a reminder :) Don’t be late!”

He knew. 

He knew because they’d made the reservations the previous Sunday, before she’d caught the last bus home. He knew because she’d reminded him every day. 

She’d suggested what he should wear. Sent him the menu to review. Told him what she’d have, the filet de veau aux châtaignes. And what about him? He had no clue. They had gourmet burgers, but would he be judged for that? Again?

“Yep. Just clocking off. Going to grab a quick shower and change. See you there! x”

It was 5pm when he logged out of the Reed & Ross Wealth Management Portfolio system and closed his work laptop. Two hours. Plenty of time. 

To grab a shower and–hoover, dust, change sheets, empty dishwasher, clean toilet, empty bins–change.

Maybe even grab a few minutes on his personal laptop, jotting down the ideas he’d had during the day. He wouldn’t have time to work on the book over the weekend and he’d forget what he’d thought of by Sunday. He’d had a cool idea on how to get Trudy Grit out of her current predicament. He couldn’t wait to start getting it down.

But he’d have to.

Because he had mature shit to do and not much time to do it. He locked in though, as the Gen Z’s in his work chats liked to say, and managed to have himself and his apartment sparkly clean within the hour.

All set, good to go, ready for a lovely evening and a fun (hike-filled) weekend with his girlfriend of six months, the wonderful Louise. Who was, as Tinder matches went, genuinely wonderful. A smart, athletic, kind hypnotherapist and yoga teacher. 

Who liked him a lot, despite his quirks.

Such as the one that led to him sitting at his laptop for a second to review what he’d written the night before, drifting into the gravitational pull of a creative black hole that stole twenty minutes of his life. 

“Hope you’re on the way ;)”

Thank God for texts. The ping and words on the screen dragged him from the brink of self-destruction and then he was up, grabbing the jacket that matched his suit trousers, confirming the presence of his wallet and stepping to the door.

The wonderful Louise would be waiting and he couldn’t have that. Because she was wonderful. His mother thought so. His Complex Supervisor thought so. His friends thought so. He thought so, too, of course.

The only one who didn’t was the ‘O’ Door.

And the ‘O’ Door reminded him that now by refusing to open. Swoosh in over the carpet. Clear a path to the plant-covered veranda and bright July evening beyond. 

That old chestnut.

It just stuck there, in place, as Theo wrenched, lost his grip on the handle, staggered back. Denial came first. Idiot. You forgot to disengage the lock.

Except he had disengaged the lock, when he’d taken the rubbish out, when the door had worked fine.

“You have to be kidding,” he said, levelling a glare on the peephole, that glassy Cyclopean eye in its black, brass ring, the one that seemed to gaze back, unblinking. 

“We are not doing this,” he said, a curt shake of the head accompanying a renewed grasp of the polished silver handle. “I thought we were good?”

Handle, down, slow, gentle inhalation, slight tug inwards…

Nothing.

Not so much as a judder.

The ‘O’ Door had welded itself shut again and a burning heat rose on Theo’s cheeks. Memories flooded back, of how this door had fucked with him since Louise’s first visit. When it locked its handle in place and caused him to sprain his wrist, leaving Louise in the rain while he jiggled it with his uninjured hand until it went down. 

That had ruined the golfing weekend she’d planned and planted the seed in her head that maybe her new boyfriend, though solid and financially-responsible, might be mechanically challenged. 

Because she could find nothing wrong with the handle.

But Theo knew what had happened. And it was a long time before he trusted the ‘O’ Door again, approaching the task of grasping and lowering its handle with the utmost of caution. He’d even had O’Reilly, the Complex Supervisor, come to look. 

For the first time.

Because the ‘O’ Door malfunctioned many more times after that and calls to O’Reilly became common. Until the mostly-amiable maintenance man caved to Theo’s request to re-hang the door.

“Goddamn ridiculous,” the patient–but increasingly frustrated–supervisor had said, “but if it makes ya feel better Mister Dorsey, an’ stops ya draggin’ me over here every weekend, lets give it a shot. Hey, is it Dorsey, or Doorsey? ’Cos Doorsey is startin’ ta sound right.”

It was Dorsey, but from that moment on ‘Doorsey’ was how Theo was greeted, whenever he met the plaid-shirt-wearing, Wilford Brimley lookalike in the courtyard or common areas of Highlake gated community.

Thankfully, the interactions were few, and he hadn’t needed assistance since the rehanging. Six weeks of blissful passage without sticking, jamming, seizing of locks and handles or doors slammed shut in his face as if some draught inside the apartment didn’t want him to leave.

The stupid mahogany door with its dark, hypnotic ‘O’ knots either side of its peephole had been ‘fixed’ and had stopped making him look like–and think of himself as–an incompetent moron.

Until now.

“Fuck my life!” Theo spat, entering into debate with the thick slab of freshly-varnished wood, something he’d done often but not much of late. “You got new hinges! A new frame! A fresh coat of paint!”

Yes, O’Reilly had done that, along with the re-hanging, because “why not, maybe she’s actin’ up ta get yer attention. Ya gotta stop bumpin’ her with yer bike. Look at those scratches! I’d be pissed too if I was Doorsey’s Door. Did ya ever think about that?” 

He had thought about that. He’d fallen out with Louise by thinking that, had almost caused her to dump him because “that’s insane, Teddy, your door isn’t haunted! Babe, I love your imagination and your stories are fun but…there’s a time and a place. If you’d stop spending so much time in fantasy land, maybe you’d be more engaged. Your hobby is fine, but when we’ve got plans, you need to focus.” 

“Open,” Theo said, not wishing to revisit those dark days of two months prior. Things had gotten back on track these last six weeks. Louise was happy. He was content. The door worked. “Don’t do this you...”

The ‘O’ Door turned a deaf ear. It let him turn its security lock, left and right as much as he wanted, jiggle its handle up and down, slow and fast, but no matter how hard he tugged the door wouldn’t budge.

“Fuck!”

Hands to head, he paced. His eyes went to the clock. 6.20. The walk–no, run–to the bus stop would take 10 minutes. The bus to the city centre was at least 35. From the depot to Tarantinos was…

Even if he got out now, he wouldn’t make it. Louise was going to…

Louise!

He hadn’t replied and even as he fumbled in his pocket his phone pinged again.   

“???”

Three question marks. The first indication of irritation. 

What to reply? 

“Sorry, babe, you’re not going to believe this but the door is acting up again. I can’t get out.” Yeah. Right. She’d fucking flip and bus over here and of course the door would open fine from that side, like it always did for her and O’Reilly and…

Tom!

Theo was a believer in serendipity and hadn’t he JUST heard Tom’s door?

No time to text, he committed the cardinal sin and thumbs-upped Louise’s “???”, something he would answer for later. He’d deal with it. Right now he had to line his eye up with the ‘O’ Door’s and confirm what he thought he’d heard, and just as he did, yes!, there was Tom, stepping into view on the veranda, taking his bag of rubbish to the communal dump.  

“Tom!” he shouted, banging on the door.

Tom stuttered to a halt, turned towards Theo’s door, straightened his glasses and scowled. 

“It’s me, Theo!” Who else would it be? “My door’s jammed again and I’m late for a date. Could you see if you can open it? You were able to last time, remember?”

Yes, with no effort at all. And after being stuck for half an hour–long enough for him to barely miss the 12pm train to Killdubh and consequently the chance to have lunch with Louise and her mum–Theo had pulled him into a massive bear hug and told him he loved him. Stupid. Tom was not the most social of individuals. Tom was some kind of shut-in who wore the same tracksuit every day. And after that display of gratitude, Tom made sure to avoid his neighbour like the plague.

So it wasn’t surprising when Tom hesitated just a second before turning and scuttling away.

“Fuck!” Theo spat, smacking the door then snatching his hand back like he’d been burnt. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to…” Ridiculous. “I didn’t mean to slap you, I’m just incredibly stressed right now, Louise is going to…”

Ping.

“Did you just thumbs-up me? Really? I hope it’s coz you’re running for the bus and also I hope you’re not running for the bus! Are you late?” Thinking face emoji.

What to do if Tom wouldn’t help? The ‘O’ Door had done him dirty like this four or five times. Louise had released him twice, both times accusing him of faking the lock-ins, so he wouldn’t have to see Madame Butterfly or meet her and her friends for brunch. Tom had obliged that one time and after that? O’Reilly. It was O’Reilly. Ah shit.

He was at the wall-mounted phone in half a second. No way out of it. Press the number. Call his office. 6.30. He’d be there. Having dinner. Watching Desperate Housewives. That show he kept asking Theo if he’d watched.

“Doorsey! Long time no complaint. Ya better not be ringin’ ’bout that door. I’ve just sat down with a Shepherd’s Pie and pressed play on…”

“Housewives, I know. Sorry to call, Mr. O’Reilly but... Ugh. This is embarrassing but yes, you’re right, it’s the door. I…can’t get out.”

Silence at the other end. Not complete. There was muttering, and Theo was sure he heard the word motherfucker in a faint, raspy whisper.

“It’s like before, well, not with the handle, the handle works, and the lock, that’s fine too, the door just won’t open. It’s been fine since you re-hung it but maybe, you know, with the heat lately, maybe the new frame like, warped, or something, I don’t know. The thing is I’m late to meet Louise and she’s going to kill me. Is there any possible way you could pop around and…”

“Mister Door- Dorsey. There’s nothin’ wrong with that door! I’ve checked. A lot. I’ve gone ’round and it’s openin’ an’ shuttin’ like a dream. Even that haunted theory of yours, if that was the case, don’t ya think it would have, ya know, done somethin’ ta me? Fallen on me or crushed me or somethin’?”

“That wasn’t my theory, that was your theory,” Theo pointed out, even though that wasn’t true, it was just that O’Reilly had given voice to it. “And hang on, you came in my apartment? When I wasn’t home?”

“I’m Complex Supervisor, Doorsey, I can do that, especially in relation ta an active complaint. I noticed ya varnished it again. What, I didn’t do a good enough job? And ya moved the yukka to the bathroom. Why’s that? Yukkas go by the door.”

Theo squeezed his eyes shut so hard he thought he might have an embolism. “Your job was fine, I was just doing what you suggested, making sure the door gets attention. Polish its handle, oil its hinges, touch up its varnish, stuff like that. And, honestly, I don’t think it liked that plant. The number of times I’d come home and find it knocked over…all prior to the re-hanging I admit and maybe pure coincidence but…better safe than sorry?”

Silence. Theo winced. He sounded fucking crazy.

Ping.

“????!!”

“You sound fuckin’ crazy,” mumbled O’Reilly, through a mouthful of Shepherd’s Pie. “I’m startin’ ta worry about ya, Doorsey. You and that lady o’yours. Don’t know why she puts up with ya.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.” 

That’s what she’d said. Before the re-hanging. When things reached critical mass after the ‘O’ Door betrayed him in the worst way. When Louise turned up unannounced as a ‘surprise’ on the free day he’d bargained for, so he could make progress on his book. She came bearing coffees, so he could ‘take a break’. But he was in the zone, racing through a nail-biting chapter. Trudy was up against it in a cliffhanger moment, literally hanging off a cliff. He had all the beats planned, knew how the chapter would play out. He didn’t want to stop. He ignored the doorbell when it chimed. Who could it be? O’Reilly? Tom wanting to know what that hug meant? He wanted to ignore the text too. The photo of the coffees and the words: “Only me, open up.” 

He opened it, stared at it, got pissed at it, stared at it more while trying to think of a diplomatic way to say ‘go away’ then screamed and dropped his phone when she piped up behind him: “Were you just going to pretend you weren’t home?”

She’d tried the door and it had opened. Despite that he’d locked it the night before and hadn’t left the apartment all day. Had locked it. 100%. Always did. Never forgot. Except, apparently, on that occasion. Because the ‘O’ Door wasn’t haunted.

If Louise’s primordial anger that day had led to his actual death, maybe it might be.

“I agree, Mr. O’Reilly, she’s an angel and she’s waiting and I’m really sorry to ask but is there any chance at all you could…”

“I’ll be around. And I better need a chainsaw ta get ya outta there or I’ll be suggestin’ ta management they consider not renewin’ yer lease next year!”

Click, the wall-phone went dead. 

Ping, the hand-phone vibrated.

“Are you just not going to answer?”

Three flickering dots working quietly.

Ping.

“I’m sitting here waiting, they let me have the table early. I have a gift for you and everything, Theo. Don’t ruin this.” Tear-eye emoji.

Ping.

Photo of a gift-wrapped box in a manicured hand with azure-coloured gel nails.

“Oh, come on,” Theo sighed, thumbs hovering over his iPhone’s keypad. “What is that?”

Unreasonably his first thought was ‘ring’ but was it unreasonable? Louise was nothing if not pushy. But no, the box looked too big for that. What then? A watch? Not that bloody Seiko she was always saying he’d look good in. That cost an arm and leg.

This was becoming too much. Yes, Louise was waiting, at a table in a swanky upmarket restaurant, but Trudy Grit was waiting too, tied between Slade and Otter’s runaway coaches. All this wasted time. He could have had her to safety already.

Ping.

“Answer me Theo!” Angry face emoji x 3.

His thumbs moved in time with his flaring nostrils and he returned to the door. 

“Sorry, Lou. You won’t believe this but the door won’t open again. I can’t leave. O’Reilly’s on the way. Sorry. You deserve better than this.”

If he’d hesitated a fraction of a second he might not have sent it, but in the heat of the moment, with one hand drifting back to the ‘O’ Door’s handle, he let his left thumb hit the arrow. Sighed and slumped his shoulders. Pressed the silver bar down. Heard the lock click and watched as the door swung inward.

“Shit,” he gasped, through bone dry lips. His eyes flicked back to his phone screen, did he have time to delete?

Three flickering dots working quietly.

“I see. What are you saying?”

Nothing, he thought, face flushed. Sorry. Work-stress. Higher targets for next quarter. New boss giving me Hell. I’m a dick, ignore me, I’m on the way, I’ll…

Dozens of excuses fighting for priority in his brain as his thumbs twitched ready to type them. But the ‘O’ Door demanded attention because it was dragging his hand back towards the frame.

“No!” Theo cried, pulling hard to stop it clicking shut. 

He lifted his phone to his mouth, pressed the microphone button.

“Sorry Lou, I shouldn’t have put that in a text. Please, wait there. I’ll be there as soon as I can. We need to talk. And it deserves a face to face. If you decide to leave I’ll understand. But I’m… I’m just… Sorry.”

Thumb to arrow, send.

The ‘O’ Door relaxed and his tugging arm pulled it wide open.

“What the actual fuck?”

He screamed, almost dropped his phone, saw O’Reilly blocking his exit.

“Mister O’Reilly, was that…? Did you…? The door…”

“I just got here, Doorsey. Left my pie ta get cold and Edie and Susan on pause ta haul ass here ta…what? Seriously now, are ya just out ta troll me?”

Ping.

He didn’t want to read her reply. He shoved his phone into his pocket and wriggled past O’Reilly out of the apartment.

“I’m not! It was stuck, I swear. But it’s not anymore. I’m sorry, I have to run.”

“Kept yer lady waitin’ again, huh? Jeez, Doorsey. She seems like a decent sort. Hate ta say it, but if this is how ya prioritise the girl, maybe the relationship ain’t right.”

Keys out to lock his apartment, Theodore nodded but didn’t object.

And as he pulled it shut, nor did the ‘O’ Door.