Not quite a knock, but a tap to say the least. I look over my right shoulder, my ears automatically lifting, tuning into where that noise may be coming from, whilst my mind sent unnecessary signals to my body in the form of fight or flight.
There it is again. A single sound. A sound which has stopped me from moving, from living. I ignore it and try to read. But the damage has already been done. I throw my book down (well gently put it on the sofa, so as to not lose my page) and unstick myself from the sofa.
I remind myself where all the sharp objects are in the house as a single tapping sound forces me to look over at the kitchen. But it’s not quite in there, but near the stairs. Now would be a good time to reach for something.
I find myself reaching the staircase door, a deep breath of courage, one hand clamped around the door knob and the other holding an small statue, I open the door.
Well, what did i expect. Nothing sprang out to drink my blood. But the tap had seemed to turn its volume up.
A box lay on the shelf. This was where the sound seemed to be coming from. I reached for it and put it down in front of me. A dusty old box, not worth keeping, not even holding its own weight it seemed, but laden with something inside.
This house was old and ever since I was a little child, I would find interesting things hidden within its walls, but now as I looked at this box, a familiar feeling washed over me. The box belonged to my mother and the sense of betrayal crept up my spine as I contemplated opening it. The tapping had stopped.