(Original title: The Shut In)
Day One
I realized I was out of pills when I heard the noise at my door again. A subtle knocking—like a child too nervous to commit any strength to it. The peephole showed an empty hall, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, or something, was out there, stalking the dark corridors of my apartment building. Waiting. God knows what would happen if someone opened their door.
The sound had been plaguing me for hours, but there was no way I’d open that door.
My doctor called this a paranoid delusion, and I know he's right. But that doesn’t chase away the fear.
Someone once tried to relate to me by talking about a bad acid trip in college. I couldn’t hide my disgust. She thought a drug experience compared to my reality? We stopped dating that night. That was long ago, before the agoraphobia really took hold.
Shell. That was her name. A grad student, friend of my sister. Said we’d be a good match. Funny how that worked out. I sit here now, locked away, a prisoner of my own mind, thinking about a girl whose face I can barely remember.
Since I started taking meds at 25, I can feel the shift when I miss a dose. It starts with shape to the delusions, then comes the energy, the compulsion, the hungerless, sleepless rush.
Dr. West explained this was the high that made people resist meds. A chemical reward for chaos. I had made my mother and sister cry too many times to ignore the medicine anymore.
The first two capsules went down like bullets. Until they dissolved, I always came up with some elaborate scheme. After they kicked in, the television became my whole world.
When you’ve been this way for long enough, you don’t need more than a blink to judge a show. A millisecond to decide. You break it down by actors, directors, colors, tone. Maybe even a place you might visit. If you could leave.
Today, the news interrupted the rhythm. Mass hysteria. Rapes. Murders. Technicolor footage of violence. My mouth went dry. I turned the TV off. Pacing didn’t help.
Eventually I stood at the window.
Five years without facing it. Five years of TV as my loophole. But now I looked.
Sunlight burned my eyes. The city was calm. No riots. No fire. No hysteria. Just normalcy.
I stepped away and turned the TV off. Sat down. Unsettled. That’s when I heard the soft knock again.
It was going to be a long day.
Day Two
I stood at the door again. The knocking had come and gone all night, but no one was ever there. Fear sat heavy in my chest. I turned the TV on.
It greeted me like an old friend. The remote had grooves worn by my fingers.
The usual garbage—court shows, dating humiliation. Then the news.
"Is this the apocalypse?" said the headline. The anchor looked unsure. I laughed.
I wasn’t too worried. This wasn’t my first withdrawal. According to my calendar, my sister was due any day with my refill.
The footage showed chaos—Molotovs, riots, police lines collapsing. Gas. Fire. Screams. Death.
Outside my window? Silence.
The coffee pot's timer went off. Shrill and immediate. My nerves twitched.
Just the meds wearing off, I told myself.
I should have called Casey, but that would mean talking. I wasn’t ready.
Stimulants were discouraged, but they kept me functional. As I moved toward the coffee, something caught my eye.
A single black pillar of smoke rose in the distance.
It had started.
Day Three
The shadows danced all night. I hadn’t slept.
I hate seeing the sunrise awake. It makes me feel dirty. A shower doesn’t help.
My sister hadn’t come. I rationalized. She would have called. The front door hadn’t knocked all night, so when it did, I jumped.
I ran to the peephole.
Nothing.
The light in the hall distorted through the lens. I thought of opening the door, but my fear shut that down.
The word insane hadn’t quite registered. Being different in a way people don’t like—worse, being dangerous under the wrong circumstances.
TV on. Static. Only three stations worked: all news.
Each showed the same scenes. Fires. Screaming. Mass death.
I turned away. Outside the window: more smoke pillars.
I panicked. Ran to the bathroom. Searched every bottle for one clozapine.
Pills everywhere. I drank cough syrup and vomited.
I stared into the toilet bowl as the colors swirled and formed vague shapes.
Then the phone rang.
Dead silence on the line.
Then my cell rang. I picked it up: Casey.
"Where are you?" I shouted.
Static. Then a scream.
The line went dead.
I unlocked three of the four bolts before freezing. My hand stopped.
I pressed my ear to the door. Sat there. Called her again.
Voicemail.
I stayed there all night.
Day Four
Screams in the night. I finally moved from the couch to bed.
No sleep. Still not tired.
Just mania.
I called Casey. Voicemail. Forced a laugh. Maybe she was just late. Maybe her phone was dead.
I was running out of food.
Shauna. From across the hall. Beautiful, quiet. Maybe Greek? We’d barely spoken.
I thought I could trust her.
I opened three locks. Stalled at the fourth.
Was I locking the world out—or myself in?
I opened the door.
The hallway stretched like a void between us.
I called her name. No answer.
I shut the door. Locked it all.
Then came the knock.
I rushed to the peephole.
No one.
"Shauna, is that you?"
A pause.
Another knock. Louder.
I sat by the door and cried. Whispered to myself that Casey would come. That she never let me down.
Day Five
Static. Whispers.
They came from the walls. First quiet, then constant.
TV on. The reporter cried in an alley. Spoke of monsters. Of endings.
I didn’t care. Casey would come. I’d take my pills. I’d sleep. It would pass.
I watched until the broadcast ended. Snow.
The white noise drowned out the voices for a time. But I had to keep turning it up.
Eventually, the volume maxed out. The whispers screamed.
Demons, I thought. Whispering truths. Offering secrets.
Then the knock.
Shauna’s voice. Crying.
I looked. Nothing there.
I opened one lock. Then another.
"Please, there’s something out here," she said.
I pressed my cheek to the door. Through the peephole, the top of a hairless head.
Gray. Gone.
"Step into view," I said.
The TV flickered behind me. The reporter’s fear. The warnings.
Shauna screamed. A sound of something inhuman burst through with it.
I locked the bolts. Slammed my weight against the door.
Whatever it was—it slammed back.
Eventually, it stopped.
I cried there. Told myself I did the right thing.
Did I?
Day Six
The blood was on my hands. I don’t know how. It soaked in from somewhere. I washed them over and over.
The pillars of smoke are gone. The voices are gone.
But there’s blood at my door.
I won’t check. That’s what they want. I won’t let them in.
They speak to me now. Through the walls. They tell me what they want.
I just have to wait. Starve, maybe. But wait.
Casey will come. She has to.
There’s a knock at the door.
Maybe it’s her.