There's Something At The Door: A Collection

By Andrew Davie

The uneasy feeling that you’ve forgotten to do something; the sound of a flat note in an otherwise perfect piano concerto. A quiet evening disrupted by a slight creak of a floorboard when you are alone in the house.

The stories in this collection all hinge on the precipice of this uncanny feeling.

Ranging from horror to science fiction, the short stories include a detective investigating the resurrection of a suspect, a man and his guardian angel drinking at a bar, the physical manifestation of anxiety, the boogie man detained by the CIA, a Shakespearian roleplaying game and many others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Oct 19, 2022

Book preview

There's Something At The Door

THERE'S SOMETHING AT THE DOOR

A COLLECTION

ANDREW DAVIE

Copyright (C) 2022 Andrew Davie

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by Michaela Jacinto

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Hyman, Mollie, Ralph, Florence

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you Heather, Jan, Johnny, Bill, Josh, Tara, Hannah, Ellen, Vince, Igor, Terry, Miika, and everyone at Next Chapter

PUBLICATION HISTORY

Versions of these stories have appeared in:

A Throw of the Die (Bristol Noir)

You Don’t Park 400 Horses on the Street (The Daily Drunk)

Abject Permanence (The Chamber Magazine)

Dread Medicine (Aesthetic: A Dark Academia Anthology)

Sheet Music (Easy Street Magazine)

Notes in the Margins of Modal Logic ) The Daily Drunk)

Fiend Folio (Bloody Key Society)

CONTENTS

A Throw of the Die

You Don’t Park 400 Horses on the Street

Abject Permanence

Dread Medicine

Sheet Music

Notes in the Margins of Modal Logic

Fiend Folio

The Straw Man

About the Author

A THROW OF THE DIE

I first met Monroe Carter after he’d killed himself. He’d taken his own life before, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m an insurance investigator.

Typically, I spend my time waiting around in a car, lurking in alleyways or just blending into the background. Some guy tries to collect on workers’ compensation by claiming he threw his back out on the job. I follow him around for a couple of days and wait. The picture I take of him bowling negates his claim and convicts him of insurance fraud.

It was during an investigation that I met Carter.

The coffee had been doing a decent job battling against a hangover when my boss called. He explained the situation to me as being a top priority. I tried to weasel out of it, but he was firm. As I hung up the phone, I accidentally spilled coffee on to my pant leg. I let rip a series of expletives, then caught the six train uptown. Carter lived in an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. When I arrived, the police were already on the scene.

Yeah, Carter, I told the doorman. He was wearing a burgundy uniform with a matching cap and had a surly demeanor; probably pissed at the number of cops in the lobby messing up his routine.

Eight D, he said. I nodded and quickly made my way toward the elevator bank hoping to avoid any further animosity.

The apartment had already been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The door was open, but a uniformed patrolman had been posted to the side. I showed him my credentials, and he let me pass.

I stepped into the living room and admired the view. Monroe Carter had just been promoted to CEO of an import/export company, which meant he needed life insurance.

A flash went off as I walked into the bedroom. The crime-scene photographer, a runty guy with the nose of a larger man, had an unlit cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth.

Shame, he said and continued to chomp on the end of it. Carter’s body lay crumpled on the bed. He’d placed a nickel-plated .45 against the side of his head and pulled the trigger. His skull had been scorched black by powder burns. Brain matter decorated sections of the comforter. Blood had pooled around the body, run down the corner of the bed and congealed on the carpet.

Still, Carter had a peaceful look on his face.

I stood there and took in the smell of cordite. I was occasionally jarred by the flash of the camera, and the hum of the forensic team that was combing the room for evidence. The gun was bagged, and the room was inspected for fibers and residue. All I had to do now was wait for them to rule out foul play. I nodded to the photographer on the way out.

Damn shame, he repeated. I noticed the cigar butt was gone and, as I made my way back through the hallway, I couldn’t help but be overcome by the feeling he’d eaten it.

You idiots! screamed a rather shrill voice. He was murdered!

I walked toward the sound of the voice and into the kitchen. Mrs Carter, or so I suspected, was holding court with two plainclothes detectives.

Those bastards! They killed him! she repeated.

Ma’am, please try to calm down.

She took a deep breath and inhaled half of the glass of wine in her hand in one pull and didn’t even flinch. It had taken me years of practice to do that. She wore some kind of low-cut dress which accentuated all the right places and even some of the wrong ones.

I could tell immediately she was not a woman to be trifled with.

We’re sorry about this, Mrs. Carter, but it looks like an ironclad suicide, the senior detective said. He had a weathered face as if the job had prematurely aged him.

Listen to me. My husband’s killer is out there somewhere; find him!

The younger of the two detectives, who hadn’t seen enough of the world yet to know better, voiced his opinion.

If he was murdered, he began to say and walked over so they only stood about a foot away from each other, that would make you a suspect, too, wouldn’t it? She didn’t reply. He turned to look at his partner. Maybe we should take you downtown and have you fingerprinted?

You arrogant simpleton, she began. I wished I had popcorn.

Do you really think I’d offer the theory that my husband was murdered if I had anything to do with it? she demanded. I believe the phrase ‘ironclad suicide’ was used not one minute ago. Now, I didn’t murder my husband, but someone did. Go find them! She punctuated the last part of her diatribe by slamming her fist on the table. Both detectives tucked their tails between their legs and backed out of the kitchen.

If you think of anything that might help us, the senior detective managed to say and handed over his business card. She watched them leave without saying a word. She killed the wine in her glass.

Enjoying the show? she asked aloud without turning around.

I… uh.

She turned to face me, and I got a good look at her for the first time. She was stunning.

Who are you? she asked. A hint of anger had crept back into her voice. She threw the detective’s card in the trash.

I’m from Jones and Biggs.

Mrs Carter eyed me suspiciously until she recognized the name then warmed up a bit.

Have a seat. Would you care for a drink?

Scotch’d be great, I offered. Mrs Carter fixed me a double and