Chapter 3: Behind Closed Doors

The walk was quiet except for cicadas and the distant rumble of a tractor. Derek’s house sat at the edge of town, a battered mailbox hanging crooked at the end of the drive. A busted lawnmower sat rusting by the porch, and the scent of manure drifted from the barn out back.

The front door was wide open. As soon as we stepped onto the porch, I was hit by a sharp, foul smell—like old blood mixed with wet hay.

It was the kind of stench that clung to your throat and made your stomach twist. I wrinkled my nose and glanced at Grandpa, who pressed a handkerchief to his face but kept moving forward.

Grandpa’s face turned serious. He stood in the yard and called out, "Derek!"

His voice echoed across the yard, sending a few crows flapping from the fence. He always called loud, like farmers do when dinner’s ready.

No answer.

For a moment, the only sound was the porch swing creaking and flies buzzing. Grandpa’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

He looked around warily and called again, "Derek!"

You could hear the worry in his tone. He peered into the shadows by the garage, searching for movement. The air felt heavier by the second.

Just then, Derek came out of the garage, his hands and shirt stained with blood.

The sight stopped us both. Derek wiped his palms on his jeans, leaving red smears. His eyes darted, and he forced a crooked, uneasy smile.

Seeing Grandpa, Derek let out a nervous laugh. "Mr. Keller, what brings you by?"

His voice was too high and quick, jittery. You could see the pulse racing at his throat.

Grandpa smiled, trying to keep things light. "I came to check on your dad. Why are your hands and clothes all bloody?"

He tried to sound casual, but his eyes kept flicking to the stains and then to Derek’s face.

Derek laughed again, shakier. "Just butchered a rabbit for dinner. Got blood everywhere."

He grinned, but his hands shook. In the country, butchering animals happened, but not usually like this.

He nodded toward the west bedroom. "Mr. Keller, you came at a bad time. Dad just fell asleep."

His gaze lingered on the sealed-off room, and a chill ran up my spine. The house was too quiet—the kind that makes you want to whisper.

Grandpa looked at the west bedroom. Its door and windows were sealed up tight, the glass covered with a heavy quilt to block out any light.

He frowned, brow creasing. The quilt looked out of place—thick enough to keep out more than drafts. Grandpa looked back at Derek, waiting for an answer.

"Derek, it’s sealed up so tight. Can your dad breathe in there? Just looking at it makes me feel hot and suffocated."

His voice was gentle but pointed. Out here, folks liked their houses aired out—nobody trusted locked rooms.

Derek forced another laugh. "Dad’s afraid of drafts, so we keep it all shut up."

He wiped sweat from his brow, voice trembling. It was an answer, but not a good one.

Grandpa nodded. "Alright, if your dad’s sleeping, I won’t bother him. Take these eggs to help him get better."

He handed the basket over, his hand lingering a moment too long—a silent warning behind the neighborly gesture.

Derek clutched the eggs awkwardly, not meeting Grandpa’s eyes. For a second, the tension eased, but only just.

Suddenly, a bout of coughing came from the west bedroom, followed by Dave’s voice: "Brother."

The word echoed, strange and low. It sounded wrong, like something scraping at the bottom of a well. The hairs on my arms stood up. That voice didn’t sound like any sick man I’d ever heard.

A chill swept the room. There was an edge to the voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Even Derek stiffened, his knuckles whitening around the egg basket.

Grandpa looked at Derek. The smile on Derek’s face vanished, replaced by a serious, almost frightening look. He glared toward the west bedroom, then forced a smile. "Mr. Keller, ever since Dad got sick, his temper’s been awful. He throws things and curses. You’d better head back."

Derek’s words tumbled out too fast, eager to get us gone. He edged toward the hallway, blocking our view.

Grandpa stared into Derek’s eyes. "Derek, are you hiding something from me?"

His question hung heavy, more accusation than question. Grandpa’s stare was unblinking, like a judge catching a lie.

Derek’s face grew unnatural. "No...no, I’m just scared Dad’ll blow up at you."

He tried to smile, but it faltered. You could see the fear leaking out around the edges.

Grandpa said sternly, "Since your dad’s awake, I’ll go in and check on him."

He took a step forward, hands clenched into fists. The mood shifted—patience turning into suspicion.

He started toward the west bedroom. Derek’s face twisted. He planted himself in front of the door, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a punch. "Mr. Keller, my dad can’t be exposed to drafts!"

Derek’s whole body was tense, like he might shove Grandpa at any second. I pressed closer to Grandpa, heart pounding.

"I just want to take a look," Grandpa insisted.

He tried to keep calm, but anger simmered beneath.

Derek snapped, "Mr. Keller, the doctor said if Dad gets a draft, he could die. If you insist and he dies, I’ll never forgive you."

His voice was shrill, almost desperate. The threat felt hollow, but it was all he had left.

Grandpa’s face darkened. He went to the window and shouted into the room, "Dave, I’m here to see you. How’re you feeling?"

His voice was steady and strong. Grandpa never backed down from a confrontation—never had, never would.

No answer.

The silence after was suffocating. I held my breath, staring at the thick blanket blocking out the light.

He raised his voice. "Dave, say something. How are you holding up?"

He pounded gently on the window. Still, nothing but silence.

Grandpa’s jaw clenched, and he shot Derek a hard look. The tension was a live wire, crackling between them.

Derek explained, "Mr. Keller, the wild hog bite messed up Dad’s ears too. Sometimes he can hear, sometimes he can’t."

He shrugged, eyes darting to the hallway, expecting someone—or something—to come out.

Grandpa frowned. "Derek, how is your dad really?"

It was simple, but the meaning was clear: enough lies. Tell the truth.

Derek glanced at him. "Dad’s alive, just needs time to recover. You don’t need to worry. Please go back."

His voice trembled, the plea real. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.

Grandpa looked at the west bedroom, worry clouding his eyes.

He hesitated, fingers drumming on the window frame, gaze lingering on the closed door like he could will it to open.

Seeing him hesitate, Derek added, "Mr. Keller, I’m Dad’s own son. Why won’t you believe me? I won’t let you see him because I’m scared something will happen."

His voice was choked, almost breaking. The anger was gone, replaced by fear and exhaustion. I wondered if he even believed himself anymore.

Grandpa’s face grew more troubled. He called out again, "Dave, I’m heading home. When you get better, I’ll come visit again."

He lingered by the door, waiting, hoping for some sign things weren’t as bad as they seemed. But there was only silence.

Derek managed a smile. "Mr. Keller, take care on your way."

He tried to sound polite, but it came out flat, his eyes never quite meeting Grandpa’s.

Grandpa nodded and led me out. On the sidewalk, he looked back at the west bedroom, hoping for a reply from Dave. But the house was silent.

The neighborhood was still, only a stray cat slipping under the porch. Grandpa sighed, heavy with the weight of what he’d seen and heard.

He sighed and took me home.

We walked back in silence, the eggs in the basket barely jostling. The sky had darkened, and the first stars were starting to twinkle above the fields.