Someone is at the Door Part One Harry L. Mora Action

The first notification came at 3:17 in the morning.
Motion detected at your Front Door.
Daniel Mercer had been asleep for maybe twenty minutes.
Sleep had become somewhere he visited instead of somewhere he lived. A motel beside an interstate. Cheap sheets. Flickering vacancy sign. You stayed because eventually the body demanded someplace to collapse.
His phone glowed on the nightstand.
3:17.
Rain tapped against the bedroom window.
Daniel stared at the notification.
He lived alone.
His house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac outside Charlotte, the kind of neighborhood where every driveway contained either an SUV or a pickup truck and grown adults became amateur detectives whenever someone's trash cans remained visible too long.
There had been package thefts lately.
That was all.
Probably.
Daniel touched the notification.
The Ring app opened.
His front porch filled the screen in grainy black-and-white infrared.
Wet concrete.
The rocking chair his mother had given him when he bought the house.
A ceramic planter left behind by a woman who no longer lived there.
Nothing else.
The timestamp moved.
03:17:08.
03:17:09.
03:17:10.
No movement.
He almost closed the video.
Then a woman whispered his name.
"Daniel."
His thumb stopped.
It was faint enough that he almost blamed the rain.
Then the voice came again.
"Daniel."
Daniel sat upright.
There were voices you forgot.
Teachers.
Coworkers.
People you met once at parties and promised to call.
Then there were voices the body remembered before the mind could protect itself.
Daniel replayed the clip.
Rain.
Empty porch.
"Daniel."
Again.
"Daniel."
Emily Vale had been dead for eleven years.
Daniel stared at the screen.
He whispered into the bedroom.
"No."
His phone vibrated immediately.
Motion detected at your Front Door.
Daniel nearly dropped it.
He opened the live feed.
Empty porch.
"Who's there?"
His own voice came through the doorbell speaker a half-second later, thin and electronic.
Nothing answered.
Daniel got out of bed.
He didn't turn on the bedroom light.
Some primitive part of him understood that lights transformed windows into mirrors, and he suddenly did not want to see what might be standing behind him.
He crossed the hallway.
Downstairs.
The house creaked around him.
At the front door he stopped.
The Ring's blue circle glowed faintly through the decorative glass.
Daniel pressed his forehead against the door.
Nothing.
Then came three knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Patient.
Daniel stumbled backward.
His phone vibrated.
Person detected at your Front Door.
He looked at the screen.
A woman stood beneath the porch light.
Long dark hair.
Black jacket.
Jeans.
Bare feet.
Her face tilted toward the camera.
The picture was imperfect.
It did not matter.
The dead did not age.
Daniel had.
Gray had started creeping into his beard. His left knee hurt when rain was coming. There was cholesterol medication beside his toothbrush and reading glasses on the kitchen counter.
Emily remained twenty-seven.
Exactly twenty-seven.
Exactly how she had looked during the final winter of her life.
She stared directly into the camera.
Then smiled.
"Open the door, Danny."
Daniel backed away.
Nobody called him Danny anymore.

Nobody had for eleven years.
Not since her.

The police arrived at 4:02.
Daniel watched the cruiser crawl into the cul-de-sac, blue lights washing silently across the houses.
Officer Hernandez looked young enough that Daniel wondered if he had been issued the uniform after homeroom.
His partner, Officer Beckett, was older and possessed the resigned expression of a man who had spent several decades discovering how bizarre human beings became after midnight.
Daniel showed them the recordings.
Hernandez watched the first clip.
Then the second.
Then the third.
"That's someone you know?"
"My ex."
"You think she's harassing you?"
"She's dead."
Hernandez looked at Beckett.
Beckett looked at Daniel.
Daniel hated the exchange.
"How long?" Beckett asked.
"Eleven years."
Beckett handed him the phone.
"Could be somebody messing with you."
"Somebody who looks exactly like a dead woman?"
"Camera quality isn't exactly Hollywood."
Daniel almost laughed.
Human beings had an incredible ability to stand six inches from the impossible and complain about resolution.
The officers searched the property.
No footprints despite the rain.
No marks in the flower bed.
No sign anyone had crossed the lawn.
They checked the street.
The neighboring yards.
The woods behind Daniel's fence.
Nothing.
Before leaving, Beckett gave Daniel his card.
"Call if anyone comes back."
Daniel looked at the Ring doorbell.
"Someone already did."
Beckett pretended not to hear him.
Daniel did not sleep.
At sunrise, he sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee he could not taste.
The clips remained on his phone.
During daylight they seemed smaller.
More manageable.
Technology could fake anything now.
Deepfakes.
Voice cloning.
Projection.
Some lunatic might have found old photographs.
Daniel searched Emily's name.
He had not done that in years.
The obituary appeared immediately.
Emily Rose Vale, 27, formerly of Rochester, New York, died unexpectedly on January 12, 2015.
Unexpectedly.
Daniel hated that word.
There had been nothing unexpected about Emily's pain.
Only its conclusion.
They had broken up six months before she died.
Their relationship had survived on accelerant.
Sex.
Jealousy.
Apologies at four in the morning.
Broken dishes.
Promises.
Reconciliation.
Repeat.
For years they called it passion.
Then one day Daniel stopped.
Emily didn't.
The final breakup had been ugly.
She threw a wineglass.
Daniel told her she was poison.
Emily told him that one day he would miss the taste.
Six months later she called him nine times.
He ignored every call.

Nine.

Numbers became sacred once guilt attached itself to them.

Eight could have been forgotten.

Ten might have become exaggerated.

Nine remained exact.

The following afternoon Emily's sister called.

Daniel still remembered the voicemail Emily had left.

He had deleted it years ago.

Deleting it had accomplished nothing.

Danny, I know you hate me.

Pause.

I don't hate you.

Another pause.

I'm just tired.

Then, quieter:

You were supposed to answer.

Daniel closed the obituary.

His phone vibrated.

Motion detected at your Front Door.

10:41 a.m.

Broad daylight.

Daniel opened the feed.

Emily's face filled the screen.

He shouted and dropped the phone onto the kitchen tile.

The feed continued.

One of Emily's eyes occupied nearly the entire display.

Then she stepped backward.

Daniel picked up the phone.

"Who are you?"

Emily smiled.

"You know."

"No."

Her mouth pulled downward.

He remembered that expression.

"You always did that."

"Did what?"

"Pretended."

"This isn't real."

"Neither were we?"

The image glitched.

For one frame the porch disappeared.

Daniel saw yellow walls.

A narrow hallway.

A crooked framed print.

Their old apartment.

Then the porch returned.

Emily raised one hand.

A key hung between two fingers.

Blue plastic tag.

Apartment 4C.

Daniel recognized it instantly.

He had lost his copy during the move.

Emily tapped the key against the camera lens.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

"Let me in."

Daniel ended the feed.

He removed the Ring doorbell that afternoon.

Problem solved.

That was how adults handled impossible things.

Unscrew them.

Daniel killed the breaker.

Removed the faceplate.

Disconnected the wiring.

Took out the battery.

He placed the entire unit in the kitchen drawer beside spare batteries and takeout menus.

Then he sat on the porch drinking a beer and feeling ridiculous.

No ghost.

No notifications.

No dead girlfriend.

At 6:13 p.m. his phone vibrated.

Motion detected at your Front Door.

Daniel stared at it.

The Ring doorbell was powerless inside his kitchen.

He opened the app.

Emily stood on the porch.

Daniel looked at the empty patch of siding where the camera had been.

Then at the screen.

On the phone, Emily leaned toward an angle that no longer physically existed.

"That wasn't very nice."

Daniel went inside.

The drawer was closed.

He opened it.

The dead Ring doorbell lay where he had put it.

The blue light came on.

Once.

Twice.

The speaker crackled.

"Daniel?"

He slammed the drawer shut.

By midnight, every smart device in the house was unplugged.

Laptop.

Television.

Speakers.

Tablet.

Daniel even disconnected the thermostat before realizing civilization had perhaps overcomplicated heat.

His phone lay face down on the kitchen counter.

He sat in the living room with every light on.

Calling someone seemed reasonable until he considered what he would say.

His brother lived in Pittsburgh.

His mother was seventy-four.

Sarah, his most recent girlfriend, had moved out the previous spring after telling Daniel that living with him felt like renting a room inside someone else's unfinished funeral.

He had hated her for saying it because it was precise.

At 12:06, the television turned on.

Static filled the screen.

Daniel stood.

"No."

The static cleared.

The Ring interface appeared.

His porch.

Empty.

Then the perspective changed.

The feed rotated until the camera seemed to be looking through the front window.

Inside.

At Daniel.

Daniel watched himself standing beside the sofa.

A seven-second delay.

On-screen Daniel stared at the television.

Behind his image stood Emily.

Daniel spun around.

Nobody.

He looked back at the screen.

Emily moved closer to the delayed version of him.

She lifted both hands.

Placed them on his shoulders.

Daniel waited for something.

Cold fingers.

Pressure.

Breath.

Nothing.

On-screen Emily leaned her face beside his.

In the real room, Daniel stood completely alone.

That was worse.

Whatever appeared behind his image was not standing behind him.

Not yet.

Emily looked directly out of the television.

Then pointed toward the front door.

The screen went black.

The following morning Daniel called Emily's sister.

He had kept Rachel's number for eleven years without once using it.

He expected it to be disconnected.

Instead:

"Hello?"

Her voice had aged.

Daniel almost hung up.

"Rachel?"

Silence.

Then:

"Daniel?"

Hospitals returned instantly.

Funeral flowers.

Casseroles nobody ate.

Emily's mother staring through people instead of at them.

Daniel gripped the phone.

"Something's happening."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Did Emily ever talk about me after we broke up?"

Rachel laughed once.

No humor in it.

"You're calling me after eleven years to ask that?"

"I need to know."

"Why?"

"Please."

Traffic moved in the background.

Rachel sighed.

"She talked about you constantly. That she loved you. Hated you. You ruined her. She ruined you. Depends which hour we're discussing."

"Did she ever talk about doors?"

"What?"

"Doors. Someone outside. Being let in."

Rachel went silent.

"Rachel?"

"The night she died, she came to my apartment."

Daniel stopped breathing.

"What?"

"About an hour before."

"You never told me."

"Why would I?"

"What happened?"

"We'd fought. I was angry."

Rachel's voice changed.

"I saw her through the peephole."

"And?"

"I didn't answer."

Daniel closed his eyes.

"She knocked for a few minutes. I just stood there."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Daniel looked toward his own front door.

"Did she leave a message?"

"Later."

"What did she say?"

Rachel hesitated.

"Nobody opens the door for me anymore."

Daniel's stomach tightened.

"Rachel."

"What?"

"She's at my house."

Silence.

Then Rachel said:

"Don't do this."

"I'm not."

"Don't you dare do this to me."

"I have video."

"Stop."

"My doorbell camera recorded her."

Rachel hung up.

Daniel called back.

Straight to voicemail.

A minute later a message appeared.

Rachel.

Do not contact me again.

Then another notification arrived.

Also Rachel.

A video attachment.

Daniel stared.

The two messages sat one above the other.

Same contact.

Same number.

Less than ninety seconds apart.

He opened the video.

Ring footage.

Not his porch.

Apartment hallway.

Number 207.

Timestamp:

January 12, 2015.

2:13 a.m.

Emily stood outside Rachel's apartment.

Alive.

Young.

She knocked.

"Rach?"

Nothing.

Again.

"Come on."

The timestamp advanced.

2:14.

2:15.

Emily paced.

Knocked again.

2:16.

She leaned her forehead against the door.

"Please."

2:17.

Finally she stepped backward.

Looked directly into the camera.

"I know you're watching."

Emily wiped her eyes.

"Nobody opens the door for me anymore."

She walked away.

The video should have ended.

It didn't.

The hallway remained empty.

Timestamp:

2:31.

2:48.

3:02.

Then:

3:17.

The picture distorted.

Emily returned from the far end of the corridor.

Daniel leaned closer.

Something was wrong with the way she moved.

Her feet touched the carpet, but her body did not rise and fall with the steps.

She approached the camera.

Her skin looked gray beneath infrared.

Her eyes were pits of black.

She leaned toward the lens.

"Your turn."

The video ended.

Daniel stared at the screen.

Then his phone vibrated.

Rachel calling.

He answered.

"Where did you get that video?" Rachel demanded.

"You sent it."

Silence.

"No, I didn't."

"It's from your number."

"Daniel."

Her breathing quickened.

"You sent it to me."

"What?"

"The same video. It came from you."

Daniel checked his messages.

Nothing showed as sent.

"I didn't."

Rachel whispered:

"Oh God."

A notification sounded through her phone.

Daniel recognized the Ring chime.

"No," Rachel said.

"Rachel?"

"My doorbell."

"Don't open it."

Daniel heard her breathing.

Then Emily's voice came faintly from Rachel's side.

"Rach?"

Rachel began crying.

"She looks exactly the same."

"Do not open that door."

"What does she want?"

"I don't know."

Three knocks.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Rachel, back away."

Emily spoke again.

"Rach, please."

Rachel sobbed.

Daniel gripped the phone.

"She isn't Emily."

"You don't know that."

"Emily is dead."

"She sounds scared."

"So did Emily when she wanted something."

The knocking stopped.

Daniel regretted the words immediately.

Then Emily spoke from the other side of Rachel's door.

"That's cruel, Danny."

Daniel froze.

Rachel whispered:

"She heard you."

Emily continued.

"You always made me sound crazy."

"Rachel, do not open it."

Silence.

Then Rachel said:

"She's crying."

"I don't care."

"Daniel."

"I care about you. Stay away from the door."

Emily knocked again.

Softer now.

"Rach?"

Daniel heard the lock turn.

"No."

Rachel whispered:

"I'm sorry."

The door opened.

Daniel heard one wet footstep.

Then another.

"Rachel?"

Nothing.

"Rachel!"

Static.

Then Rachel whispered:

"I thought maybe she just wanted to come home."

The call disconnected.

Police found Rachel alive the next morning.

She was sitting on her kitchen floor.

Her front door stood open.

At first, she remembered almost nothing after looking at the camera.

Doctors kept her for observation.

Daniel drove to Rochester.

Rachel initially refused to see him.

Eventually she agreed.

They sat across from each other in the hospital cafeteria.

She looked older than her voice had sounded.

"Do you remember anything?" Daniel asked.

"Pieces."

"Inside the apartment?"

Rachel stared into her coffee.

"She walked in."

Daniel waited.

"She hugged me."

"What did it feel like?"

"Like Emily."

"What does that mean?"

"You know what somebody feels like when you've known them your whole life."

Daniel did.

Rachel's eyes watered.

"She said she forgave me."

"For not answering?"

Rachel nodded.

"Then what?"

"I asked if she was real."

"What did she say?"

Rachel looked at him.

"Does it matter?"

Daniel's skin tightened.

Rachel leaned forward.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"She asked about you."

Daniel already knew.

"She asked if you'd opened the door yet."

"No."

"Good."

Daniel studied her.

"Why good?"

"Because I think that's what it wants."

"To get inside?"

"No."

Rachel shook her head.

"To be invited."

Back home, Daniel removed everything.

The Ring doorbell went into a cardboard box in the garage.

He changed the router.

Changed passwords.

Canceled his Ring account.

Deleted the app.

The notifications continued.

Every night.

3:17.

Sometimes:

Motion detected at your Front Door.

Sometimes: