Tread No Dust

I wondered if maybe my vigilance had faltered

Crayon and a Bic pen on an Index card

Even at this moment, I am most afraid of change. But not in a strictly material sense. I fear a change in the atmosphere or essence of the world. I am concerned. Concerned that the entire scope of what is real could drastically alter, and I would be left in the old world with my old mentality. Due primarily to this sensation, I would, every day, peer through my keyhole into the hallway. I would look for signs that things were different. I could never get much information from my vantage, but I would still examine the naked, dusty floorboards and filthy bare walls that separated the apartment doors. Near what I thought was the beginning—that hallway didn’t change, and that constancy was comforting.

If I were alerted by footsteps, I would run to my keyhole. I attempted to catch a glimpse of what was stirring. At those times, it was always the same few figures, and always from the back; I never saw faces. I would see long grey raincoats with high collars, and the round pates floating above concealed necks. I remember beige slacks that shifted and crunched in a steady rhythm.

There was no pattern to my neighbors, none that I could see, just pilgrimages. At all hours of the day, something could stir in that hallway. I kept a pad and pencil by my door, and when I was certain, I would make a mark to signify something had gone out. I had hoped to establish patterns or schedules, but I never did. I knew the world didn’t work in accordance with my desires, so this irregular pattern wasn’t too disconcerting. Everything can go as it pleases, and any doings were not my business. Sure, it would have been nice to track all departures. Lots of things would be nice.

I never saw or heard my neighbors return, and that fact would enflame some mild terror. I allowed this to bother me to such great lengths that on several occasions, I had looked through that keyhole for…longer intervals. I watched as one after the other left. They would exit and lock their doors behind them. I couldn’t see their faces. It was those high-collared raincoats that obscured the details. I wondered if I was missing something. I wondered if maybe my vigilance had faltered. It was possible I had nodded off or had taken an extra-long blink. The lack of details confused me. I yearned to see a single return play out. I forced myself not to think about it too much. At my core, I knew that if I had seen someone return, or by chance, caught a glimpse of a face, by their very nature, such observations would signify a change, and I didn’t want that. I wasn’t about to look for faults in a system serving my desire. I convinced myself that I was content. The backs of my neighbors were just how they should be. I was just how I should be, and the hallway was fine without my inquisition.

The electric heat kept the building warm, which is good, but when one is always warm, it’s hard to know the month. I wish I had written the full dates on my notepad. If only I had included the year. My notes were scrambled, and my home was very dark; I couldn’t write straight. There were several Aprils and Mays that seemed out of place. I should have taken better notes. I lost track of things, but at least that was a constant; It was my nature to lose track. The raincoats make me think it is spring: “April showers bring May flowers.” So I’ll begin again, the 17th of April is as good a day as any to start again.

My neighbors were always so conscientious and polite. They never slammed doors or stomped. I never even heard so much as a throat clearing. I would intuit the doors creak and the jingle of keys; I would listen to the lock engage, and soft footsteps, but that was it. I was convinced there wasn’t a better place to live, much of the time. I did, however, want a more regular pattern, but we don’t get everything we want. That is what I’ve been told.

My peeking and my keyhole served a purpose. I had no other way to entertain myself. My apartment lacked windows and was very dim. The space for me to roam within those walls was also limited. Parts of me believed that I stared all the time, and those parts began to notice smaller bits of detail. This gathering of information was not well received by all my parts, and it only served to further my anxiety. I didn’t want any change, but some things in that hallway were quite disgusting.

The filth on the walls was positioned just so, as it should have been, and I grew to be very familiar with it. The walls were untouched, as far as deductive reasoning relayed to me. I had never seen a resident even resting a hand on those walls; no one leaned or brushed, stumbled or fell. Judging by how filthy they were, I don’t blame anyone for staying clear of them. Greasy Stains smeared the length of that drab grey paint. As to what could have made a mark like that, I have no idea, but I was glad they remained; It felt perfect as it was.

The floors were quite a different mystery. The unpainted planks of wood that ran the length of that thin hallway were covered in a thick layer of dust. Occasionally, those overhead lights would illuminate millions of dust particles as they danced or fled, but for the most part, it remained unstirred. After long shifts of hall observation, it dawned on me how impossible it was that the dust remained. Foot traffic, as I mentioned, wasn’t heavy by any means, but walking should have displaced the dust. I couldn’t see footprints or the dragging of a loafer.

To rationalize this was challenging. There was a possibility that my neighbors were so conscientious with their steps that they did not even disturb the dust, but that was far-fetched. I leaned toward denial and wishful thinking. Dust unchanged shocked my system. I was aware of it, and I could not forget. Based on all my other preferences, this unchanged scene should be delightful, but it is not grounded in reality. Not any I had previously known.

The unmoved substances on the floor convinced me that my best efforts had failed, and things had altered. I was left behind. In that life before, the dust had always been movable, light, almost ephemeral, but now it seemed immutable, dense, stubborn. I had no desire to cross the threshold of my door, but at length, my curiosity won out.

I crouched down and lined my eye up with the gap at the bottom of the door. I saw how thick the dust was, nearly half an inch, and this struck me as absurd. My vision had lied to me, or my mind had snapped. I was pondering this, and without my attention, I stuck my index finger under that slat and ran it across the width of the floorboards. By mistake, mind you, by mistake.

The dust accumulated on my fingertip, and I drew that finger quickly, wiping it on my pants. I shuddered and felt quite ill. It was an involuntary movement. They say prayers without intentions are time lost, and things would be…difficult moving forward.

My soul felt the severity of that action, and I retched at the grave mistake. …things cannot be undone. The impact was not immediate, but the air around me shifted. The façade of isolation I had enjoyed so long was gone. In all my hubris, I had never imagined that my neighbors had also been aware of the unchanging hallway.

In the time after the breach, all the care and politeness that had existed halted. The doors that had so gently been shut now slam at odd intervals. The reassuring glide of the locking mechanism—was replaced by a jarring shotgun blast of engagement. The soft footsteps of kindly people were now just angry, frustrated stomps. I sat cross-legged on the floor with my hands over my ears to muffle the sounds. I was in constant struggle with the desire to peer through that keyhole again, but I knew it would be different. I was frozen with indecision, but in the end, the imp of the perverse prevailed. I crawled toward that keyhole.

My worst predictions are true. The hallway is littered with scraps of food, paper, and other unrecognizable debris. The former greasy smears on the walls have become vibrant and dense effluvia. The naked boards of the floor were splintered and cracked beyond repair. The unstirring dust was dampened and turned into a thick layer of mud. I recoiled with horror at what I saw. I don’t know how long I cowered and hid. At great length, I steeled myself and resolved never to look through that keyhole again.

The sounds were different somehow. The movements would no longer fade off into some distant stairwell. The noises that had replaced careful footsteps were now a rhythmic patter.

Trembling in the darkness before my keyhole, I stood. My body bent slightly forward against my will. My eyes bulged and strained.

Dryness and fatigue made them itch.

I forced my head to turn and avoid that aperture,

The resistance I offered was…meaningless.

When I looked, I saw four shapes swaying in that filthy hallway. They were turned toward my door, and I could see their faces.

Each mocking distortion was devoid of nearly all human features. But the lone bit of humanity that remained was a single eye.

This glaring reminder of my defilement.

It was positioned in the center of a mound of soft flesh, and when open, it bore hatred upon me.

The Shambling group blinked in unison as they swayed like four arhythmic metronomes. My neighbors were staring at my door. I pulled away and pressed my back against the far wall.

I crumbled to the ground.

My face was hot and wet.

The swaying of raincoats and the swishing of beige pants assailed my ears. It was loud and fierce.

The floorboards creaked as shifting weight side to side bowed the rotten wood.

They were not moving forward. It was deliberate—it was to taunt.

I’ll never look again.

I don’t know where I am.

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I think it is May or April. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I last looked. They will forget my indiscretions over time.

I have time.

Even at this moment, I am most afraid of change.

I will check the notes.

I am not going anywhere.

I could never get much information from my vantage.

I stand against this back wall. This room is so small. I know it is exactly 28 inches across. I’ve seen that in my notes.

The door is pressed against my nose. It is hard to avoid looking through the peephole.

I might forget or convince myself it was a delusion.

I need to remember when I moved in. May, or April, I think.

And the last time I ate or drank water?

It’s so dark in here with no windows.

A light is coming from under the door frame.

I can barely look down. There is no room to bend my neck.

I see a pair of bare feet.

Those feet are mine.

I think? No!

I know it to be true.

Next are those ankles.

They should be attached to the feet.

Right? So?

I see ankles, but no feet.

I assume they lead to some knees.

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