Anyone who knows me well knows that I am a bit jumpy when Peter is away. Not jumpy as in “jumping-up-and-down-so-happy” kinda jumpy, but the “every-little-noise-freaks-me-out” variety.
Normally while Peter is away the jumps are the result of my very vivid imagination and keen middle-of-the-night hearing, but this time around I have had a few surprises.
Before he even left I had a bit of foresight, or at least I should have, but I only realized it was foresight in hindsight. Anyway. No one ever randomly comes to the door here. But last week, before Peter left, there was a knock at the door. Peter was at work. Timidly, I [barely] opened the door. It was a lady and her husband. They asked me about the house. I assumed they wanted to see it. I told them it’s off the market. Then they ask why. I tell them that my husband got a job and we are moving, so we’re going to rent it. They ask what he does. For one of the first times ever, I confidently told them that he was a youth minister (most times I’m not so confident because I am afraid that people are going to immediately put me in a box). The lady was most excited about this and breaks out her little King James Version and starts talking to me about Jehovah and the Jehovah’s Witnesses. We had quite the conversation. Actually, she was really the only one talking.
Crisis averted. At least she wasn’t going to murder me.
But after Peter left, there was another knock on the door. Hair raising on the neck. Timidly, I [barely] open the door.
This time a little old lady and a younger lady. She asked about the house. I’m thinking, OHHHH great, here we go again. This time she brings up the election (which after reading Jeremy’s comment on my last blog, I hope doesn’t result in me being drafted into the war). She starts talking about Jesus and how he prayed “thy kingdom come”. I let her speak a bit longer and finally, kindly let her know that I am a Christian, I go to a church right up the street, I work at home and I appreciate that she wants to share this message but I just don’t have the time.
Crisis averted. Not getting murdered or robbed. Phew.
Later that day, out of nowhere. I’m sitting in the living room, editing on my laptop. Somone LITERALLY jiggled the doorknob and tried to get in. This time I’m freaked. What the you-know-what is going through my mind. Man we really need a peephole. I peep out the window. I see a lady in a van, in the passenger side, and a dark-haired man at the door. Ummmm… okay. I debate. I decide, again, to timidly open the door, keeping in mind that he could just burst on in and rape me, murder me and steal all my stuff, thinking “he probably wants the d300”. It’s our substitute-substitute realtor (since our own realtor and the realtor who replaced him both went on holidays) and he wants to return the key that they keep in the little lockbox outside for when people come for viewings. Odd choice to just jiggle the doorknob instead of knocking. Our car was in the shop so he must’ve thought we were out. But still. It doesn’t make sense.
Crisis averted. No brass knuckles, no murdering, not even a severe beating and robbing.
AND FINALLY, tonight. Hanging out with Eva. It’s dark. All of the sudden. Knocking. I can just barely see black hair through the little window that is at the top part of the door. Black hair definitely means death. I peek out the window. A car on the dark street. No one else. I can’t see the person at the door, I have no idea who it is, or who it could be. But they keep knocking. These eerie little three-knock-series’. Knock-knock-knock… me panicking…knock-knock-knock…what should i do, what should i do, do i open it?knock-knock-knock. It’s like something out of Scream, only he’s not phoning, he’s just knocking. I answer, again, just enough so one eye peeps out. He has a bag of food (AWESOME smelling food) in his hands. Before he can stammer “Uhh… for you?” I say “wrong house”. He’s probably pretty confused at this point. I don’t think he speaks English very well so he stutters a bit and then points to the receipt which bears the name of the previous owner of the house.
Crisis averted. No Scream mask, nothing.
And the moral of the story is:
when you move and you order take-out, make sure that they have your new address!
Oh, and don’t ever watch horror movies, ever. They will never leave your imagination.