Knock Knock: Who is There?

 PART ONE: TWENTY YEARS AGO

“I haven’t been able to sleep since they’ve moved upstairs for me,” I complain to my landlord’s secretary.

“But he’s a doctor, and she is a social worker,” she says.

“I am not sure what they do for a living correlates with why they fight every night.”

“You’re single, you’re probably just more sensitive to sound."

She does not give me the time of day. This happy couple shouts and swears every night. I can’t decipher the words. But one night, he throws her against the wall. “Why is that old hag coming to stay with us?” he shouts.

“She’s my mother,” she says, crying. “You son of a bitch."

One morning, I bump into my janitor, who says,” I believe you.”

He tells me the husband always wears protective blue gloves, and that he has caught him cleaning around the building in the building’s security footage, which he occasionally looks at.

One night, upon awakening, I hear three voices arguing. The mother is obviously trying to protect her daughter from her son-in-law.

Having had enough, I finally wrote an official complaint and sent it to my landlord by registered mail. I never heard back from management. And the noise continued, so I bought off-the-shelf sleeping pills as a temporary solution.

A couple of weeks later, the doctor showed up at my front door and knocked. I barely heard the knocking as I was blow-drying my hair. I was getting ready to go out for some sushi with friends.

“Hey, it’s your upstairs neighbor.”

“Please leave or I will call the police.”

“I know our fights must be scary for you,” he says through the door in a child-like voice.

“Please leave.”

“But I really want to help you. These are normal mommy and daddy fights. You can’t keep complaining about them. It will make you seem deranged.”

“I will call our janitor and the police now if you don’t leave.”

“Oh, there is no need for that,” he says and finally walks away.

Weeks later, I see a sweet old lady opening their mailbox. She tells me that she has moved in with her son-in-law, who is a doctor, and her daughter, who is a social worker. They are such caring people.

He soon approaches her. I know it’s him because of the blue gloves. He has never seen me, so I smile and walk away.

One day, it sounded so crazy above me that I had to call the police. I heard the next day that they took the wife on a stretcher to the hospital. She was badly beaten, and so was the mother-in-law who tried to stop the fight.

When I told one of my colleagues that the doctor’s wife did not press charges, he told me his neighbor was moving out. It would be a good, quiet spot for me to live.

After the police incident, my property owner released me from my lease. I had to pay for my own moving expenses, figuring that regaining peace was worth it. I slept again. It felt safe living next to my 6’4 body-building colleague.

A few months after I had moved, my former building's secretary messaged me. She mentioned that I had been two days late paying my last rent.

I was so glad to get away from these nuts and sociopaths, who were not afraid to show their shadow sides to those whom they believed were lower than them on the social status spectrum.

 

PART TWO: THE PRESENT

Walking out of the office that night, the air felt oppressive.

While waiting for my bus, I saw a middle-aged man in a unicorn costume loudly cursing about not getting paid for a children's party gig.

The bus arrived, and a woman with long, dark, and tangled hair stepped out and punched me in the chest.

Once at my building, checking my mail, my neighbour walked out of apartment two, in a white undershirt, boxer shorts, and sneakers. Passing by me, he must have noticed my confused look, as he said, “Walking to the pharmacy across the street to get some smokes.”

Opening my front door, I could see my parents had already arrived to help me set up for my birthday party, which I was hosting. My dad had already spread all the decorations all over my apartment. My dad came over to kiss my cheek. Sadly, my mother was unable to assist since she was recovering from being hit by a car and still had her entire leg in a cast. She sat quietly on my sofa. She knew how hurt I was for her and for what she had to go through.

Minutes later, there was a knock at my front door.

I had forgotten the warning from my neighbors that a strange man had been knocking on everyone’s door and harassing them.

“Who is it?”

“We have a few questions to ask regarding your apartment,” a woman’s voice said. Peeking out the peephole, I saw a man dressed in bland polyester clothing. I assumed that he was part of the building's management.

“Yes,” I said, opening the door.

I automatically recognized it was Dr. Bates. He had the same blue gloves on. I decided to keep it cool. It was obvious that he did not remember me.

“I’m Siena, the new property manager, and this is Dr. Norman Bates. He wishes to buy the condo below you.”

“I am an investor, actually,” he added.

He did not waste any time asking questions.

“Do you wear high heels at home?”

“Ah . . . no.”

“Do you have carpeting?”

“No.”

“Can I buy you some?”

“I have dust allergies."

“What about some area rugs?”

“I have dust allergies.”

“Do you wake up early?”

“At seven, to get to work.”

“That’s too early for me in the morning. Could you shower at night? I do not want to hear the plumbing running.”

“Excuse me, I must go, my parents are here visiting. The new property manager should be able to answer all your questions. I then smiled and shut the door on them.

The next morning, severe thunder and lightning served as my alarm clock. The rain was falling relentlessly like it was on crack. Luckily, I turned on the TV to learn that the subway line that I needed to take to work had flooded—and that the city mayor was warning us to stay home. Visibility on the roads was nil. The city was officially on lockdown. I grabbed a book and a couple of blankets to read on the sofa. Then the power went out. In seconds, my mother texted me to warn me to stay put. I texted back, I’m not going anywhere. Don’t worry! Hug and kiss!

I must have dozed off reading and woke up to the sounds of knocks on my front door, thinking it was the janitor who usually checked in on us as the generator in the building was kaput. It was not him. When I opened the door, they were there to greet me once more. How did he manage to get to my building in the crazy weather?

“You should really get that doorbell fixed,” he said, dripping all over the hallway carpet.

I did not say a word.

“Are you planning on moving? I want to buy your place.”

“I do not own it. Call the landlord. He is the one you should be dealing with.”

“Can I see the apartment just for a moment?”

“No, I need 24-hour notice,” I said, closing the door on them once again.

I was already upset that my birthday party might have to be rescheduled due to the weather, and I had no patience to deal with this tumor from my past.

That Saturday, with my family and friends over, he called back again. After saying hello, he asked, “What if I give you $7,000 to move?”

“Where did you get my number?”

“The property manager gave it to me.”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me come clean with you. I’m not an investor. I need a place to live . . . going through a bad divorce. My wife left me. We’re selling the house.”

“Really?” I said sarcastically. “You need to follow the rules and make a proper appointment with the landlord to see if he wants to sell his unit.”

“I’m going to evict you . . .”

“So, you bought the place without seeing it?”

“No, Carley.”

“Please refer all your questions to the landlord, then.”

“I’m going to evict you! I know the rental board laws."

“Great,” I said and hung up. Then I mouthed out loud, “wack job.”

I headed back to my party, and it was at least time for the cake.

Heading back to work after my birthday weekend, we were informed that our corporate event planning business needed to expand by the two owners. We were barely making a profit. We would also be in the wedding, baby shower, and gender-reveal business now. The good news was that I was expected to cancel my vacation and work overtime this summer if I wanted to keep my job. When the day ended, I was greeted by a herd of teenage boys at the bus stop after my subway ride. One of them blew smoke in my face intentionally.

Once inside my apartment, I could see that Dr. Bates had called me twice: at noon and at eight. This continued for weeks. It is then that I realized call display was invented by a woman, desiring peace from crazy men.

Suddenly, I heard shots. I immediately called 911, like others probably did in the building. Soon, police sirens could be heard. I hid in my closet.

It had felt like an eternity before the police entered my apartment with a woman who was a social worker. It said that on her tag.

“The man who has been harassing the tenants is on the run. He recently came back and buzzed the property manager. She would not let him in. So, he went to shoot at her apartment through her living room window, but luckily, he missed her. She is in shock and can’t speak yet.

“Do you know him?”

“His name is Dr. Norman Bates.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s a long story. I do not know him personally, but he has crossed my path twice in my life.”

One of the officers, then, googles his reviews online and shares that he has a one-star average rating out of five. One of his patients even wrote: Avoid this family doctor if you can; he seems to need psychiatric help. I have complained to the local College of Physicians. But no one took me seriously. He seems to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.