Late for work

There was a noise downstairs, though he knew no one else was in the house.

He went down the stairs and stopped at the end of the hallway, standing still.
He heard it again—coming from the storage space beneath the stairs.

With one hand on the handle, he leaned in and pressed his ear to the door.

Nothing.

He opened it anyway.

He reached for the light, but before he could find the switch, the door shut behind him.

He shoved coats and jackets aside, fumbling back to the door. When he opened it, he wasn’t under the stairs anymore—he was upstairs, in the studio.

Confused, he stepped fully into the room and closed the door.

The noise returned.

He paused, listening, then looked up.

When he let go of the handle and turned around, he was in his bedroom.

This time the sound came from above—from the attic.

He walked to the door but didn’t open it. He knocked twice and listened.

Nothing.

He knocked twice more.

Still nothing.

He opened the door and stepped through carefully, keeping his foot wedged so it wouldn’t close behind him.

There was no way to hold it open and climb the stairs at the same time. The door swung shut.

To his surprise, the stairs led down—to the basement, not up to the attic.

He turned around, opened the door again, stepped through, and closed it.

Only then did he notice his hand was no longer on a stairwell door.

It was gripping the handle of the patio door.