The Latch

The Latch

Before bed, Ling double-bolted the front door, locked the bedroom, and wedged her key in the gap so no one could open it from outside. Only after checking twice did she switch off the light and lie down.

The next morning, her fingertips felt something wrong with the doorknob. She remembered the latch pointing right—her hand muscles still recalled the twist—yet now it tilted left, like a mocking smile.

That night, she stared at it for three minutes, repeating: Left. Left. Left. By morning, it pointed right.

On the third night, she took a photo. The picture showed left. At dawn, it stood upright, a silent exclamation mark.

Cold sweat slid down her spine. Someone had been inside? But years of insomnia had made her hypersensitive to noise. She’d wake at the sound of a leaf brushing the window. She added a security chain. As the metal links fell, a memory flashed: the gold chain on a man’s neck brushing her cheek as he leaned over her. Her fingers trembled; she steadied herself on the wall.

The next morning, the latch pointed down.

She bought a palm-sized travel door lock, a steel fang clamped into the frame. She tested it obsessively, the way she scrubbed her skin raw in the shower, sure there was dirt buried deep.

When the latch moved again, she fixed a magnetic alarm to the frame. If the door opened even a crack, its shrill scream would pierce the apartment. Under her pillow, she hid a sharp fruit knife. If anyone came near her, she’d drive it into his chest. If only she’d had one back then...

At 4 a.m., she woke and rushed to the door; the latch hadn’t moved. But by daylight, it had twisted to an impossible angle. She screamed, kicking the door, just as she’d wanted to do before his blow knocked her out. When she woke, clothes torn, he was gone. But he’d left her with shame she couldn’t erase.

She installed infrared cameras on both sides of the door. At last, she would know. She cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner. Perhaps now she could rest. But in bed, her thoughts wandered like ghosts, only to jolt her awake as sleep drew near.

In the morning, she hurried to check the footage. 

Mouth agape.

Someone had turned the latch.

A naked woman walked toward the door, hair swaying like waterweed. When she turned, Ling saw her own sunken eyes and upturned mouth. The woman mouthed her nightly incantation: Lock it. Lock it…