KEYHOLE
III



The first time Eleanor saw Death, it knocked on her door, patient and unassuming. The sound was soft, like a leaf brushing the sill, yet it carried a weight that froze her mid-step. When she finally opened the door, it wasn’t the skeletal figure she’d imagined, but a being cloaked in shadow, its presence less a form and more a suggestion—a silhouette traced in the absence of light.
“Hello, Eleanor,” it said with a voice as calm as evening rain. “May I come in?”
She slammed the door, bolting it with trembling fingers. On the other side, there was no demand, no threat—just a long, patient sigh. After a moment, a voice came, in a light tone.
“You know, I’m not used to doors closing on me. It’s a little undignified.”
But Eleanor could no longer sleep in silence; the knocks returned each night, soft and persistent. Once, in the haze of half-sleep, she dreamt of a pair of eyes watching her through the very keyhole she dared not approach. She awoke trembling, the imprint of their gaze seared into her memory. Still, the door remained locked, her barrier against whatever lingered outside.
Eventually, curiosity overtook fear, and she crouched, her knees groaning in protest, to press her eye against the keyhole. What she saw was a shape of absence, the kind of void that eats at the edges of vision.
“I know you’re there,” it said, its tone pleasant. “Why don’t you open the door? I promise, I’m not half as scary as people make me out to be.”
Eleanor said nothing, retreating to her room, heart hammering.
“Well, that’s rude. Most people at least pretend to be hospitable.”
 Eleanor’s world had shrunk long before Death came calling. Her garden, once her sanctuary, had grown wild and untamed, its marigolds overrun by thorny brambles. The house was worse—a labyrinth of dust and memories, its once-cheerful corners cast in gloom.
Samuel had loved the garden, planting row upon row of marigolds. “These will keep the bad things out,” he’d say, his laughter bright against her ear. Now the marigolds were gone, replaced by creeping vines that clawed at the windows like uninvited guests.
When Death returned the next evening, Eleanor surprised herself by speaking first. “Why do you knock? You’re Death. Can’t you just
 enter?”
From the other side, it chuckled. “I could, but where’s the fun in that? I knock because it’s polite. And because I’m giving you a choice.”
“What kind of choice?”
“To let me in,” it said simply. “Or not.”


***


Eleanor often thought of Samuel on the quietest nights, when the house seemed to breathe around her. His laughter had been a boon, weaving joy into their simplest days and hope into her loneliest.
Weeks turned into months, and Death became a secondary fixture in Eleanor’s life. Its visits were always at the same time, its knock gentle yet insistent. Their conversations began as one-sided, with Death making quips about the nature of existence while Eleanor sat silently on the other side of the door.

“You know,” Death mused one evening, “people always assume I’m the villain. But think about it—what’s scarier? A door that closes forever, or one that never does?”

Eleanor’s lips thinned. “I’ve seen what’s behind some doors. That’s enough for one lifetime.”

Death hummed, almost in agreement. “Fair. But the worlds you’ve locked away—how many of them have you closed yourself out of, for no reason other than the weight of their doors?”

Eleanor turned away from the keyhole, the question sinking in. What did it know of her burdens? Yet its words lingered, stirring doubts and fragments of memories she’d tried to bury.
"Any chance you'll let me in?"
Elanor snorted. "Nice try. I won't be resting tonight."
Death chuckled, earnestly amused. “Have you considered how exhausting it is to keep walking?”

***

Eleanor’s nights grew longer, and they filled with strange, fleeting glimpses of something new, lurking in the corners of her vision. The first time it happened, she was in her kitchen, brewing tea. A faint movement caught her attention, a flicker of shadow near the doorway. She froze, her heart pounding, but when she turned, there was nothing there. It began happening more often—in mirrors, in the reflection of her window at night, even in the polished surface of her silverware. The shadows always seemed to vanish just as she tried to focus on them, leaving behind a potent sense of being watched.
She took to sleeping with the lights on, though it did little to banish the unease. The knocks at her door grew louder, more insistent, each one reverberating through the silence of her home like a heartbeat. 
On one particularly existential night, Eleanor sat up in bed, unable to sleep, her gaze locked on the shadows cast across the room, and the light from the keyhole that filtered in from the space beyond. She was convinced something unseen watched her from the far corner, where darkness prevailed.
“Forgot how to knock?” Eleanor’s voice trembled despite her attempt at humor.
The figure hidden in the corner didn't respond, but its presence filled the room like a cold draft. Slowly, it extended a hand, its fingers impossibly long and thin. Eleanor’s breath hitched as she noticed the faint outline of a scythe slung across its back. 
"Come with me,” the figure said, its voice a low, resonant hum.
Eleanor barely skipped a beat in her response. "Not yet."
The entity exhaled, perhaps out of annoyance. After a long silence, it spoke again.
“You’re braver than most,”
Eleanor tightened her grip on the counter. “I’m too old to be scared of shadows.”
The figure tilted its head, almost curious. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it dissipated, leaving only the faint scent of the forest floor.

***

Over time, their conversations deepened. Death shared impressions of its work: the way the air shimmered when someone accepted their fate with grace, the peculiar weightlessness of a soul letting go. Eleanor began to talk, too, filling the silence with memories of Samuel, of her children, of the life she had lived before her body began to calcify around her spirit.
“You must think I’m foolish,” she said one night. “Clinging to this.”
“Not foolish,” Death replied. “Just human.”
Eleanor smiled, despite herself. “That sounds like something Samuel would’ve said.”
Death’s voice was gentle. “Tell me about him.”
And so she did. Night after night, she unspooled the threads of her life, weaving them into a tapestry of laughter, love, and loss. Death listened, its presence steady and unjudging.
The night the Agency arrived, Eleanor’s routine was shattered. Men in stark uniforms knocked on her door, their voices clipped and efficient.
“Mrs. Clarke,” one of them called, “it’s time to let go. You’re endangering yourself and others by resisting.”
Eleanor pressed her hand to the door, her gnarled fingers tracing its familiar grain. “I’m not ready,” she whispered.
Eventually, the men retreated. Soon after, she heard Death’s voice, uncharacteristically subdued, coming from the other side. “It’s not about them winning, Eleanor. It’s about what you’re holding onto—and what it’s doing to you.”
Even as her body twisted further, Eleanor clung to her refusal, bolstered by the nightly visits. But one evening, when Death arrived, something was different. Its voice was quieter, its usual humor muted.
“Are you okay?” Eleanor asked, surprised by her own concern.
“I’m fine,” Death replied, though it sounded weary. “You, though
 you’re falling apart.”
“You’re one to talk,” she shot back, though her tone was softer than usual.
Death chuckled, a voice that lacked its usual brightness. “I think it’s time, Eleanor.”
She pressed her forehead to the door, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Not yet.”

***

As the weeks dragged on, Eleanor’s body began to betray her. It started with her skin, which grew pale and thin, marked by faint webs of blue veins beneath. Her hands, once strong and capable, became frail and gnarled, the fingers curling inward as though retreating from the world. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her cheeks had sunken, her eyes dull and ringed with shadow.
The decay was slow but relentless. Her nails grew brittle and yellowed. Her joints began to stiffen, locking in ways that made every movement a careful negotiation with agony. Each step felt as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight.
Her hair, once a silver cascade, began to fall out in clumps, leaving patches of raw, scaly skin behind. The texture of her scalp was alien, ridged and rough like bark. Worse still was the sensation of something writhing beneath her skin, a slow, twisting movement that she could neither see nor address in any meaningful way.
One night, as she lay in bed, she felt a sharp pain in her chest. It started as a dull ache but quickly grew unbearable, as though her ribs were being pried apart from the inside. She clawed at her chest, desperate to relieve the pressure, and for a brief, horrifying moment, she thought she saw something move beneath her sternum, pressing outward against her skin before retreating into the depths of her body.
Eleanor’s teeth began to loosen, one by one. She would wake to find them lying on her pillow or taste the metallic tang of blood as they fell out during meals. Fortunately, she didn't seem to need food anymore, nor did she want it.
Her vision blurred. Black spots danced at the edges of her sight, growing larger each day until she could barely see more than shadows and shapes. The world around her became a shifting nightmare of indistinct forms, and the sense of being watched grew stronger, more oppressive.
Her legs were the last to go. The muscles wasted away, leaving her bones to grind against each other with every step. Eventually, they refused to support her weight altogether, and she was confined to a chair, her once-lively home reduced to a prison of decay.
And still, the knocking continued.

***

Then, one night, Death didn’t return. In its place came a new knock, thunderous and impatient. The air grew cold, and a voice filled with cruelty replaced the familiar warmth. Eleanor drug her fragile body to the shaft of light spilling from her keyhole.
“Eleanor Clarke,” a voice rasped, jagged and uncaring. “Your time is long past due. Open the door.”
Her heart twisted. “You’re not him,” she whispered.
The voice laughed, the sound scraping like rusted nails. “Him? He was soft. A mistake. I am here to fix what he left undone.”
The air grew heavier, oppressive. Eleanor’s knees buckled, but she clung to the counter for support. “You can’t force me.”
The jagged silhouette loomed, its edges flickering like broken glass. “Force you? No. I don’t need to force you. Your defiance tears at the threads of the world. The longer you refuse, the more it unravels. The more you unravel.”
Eleanor clenched her fists, her voice trembling. “Then let me unravel.”
“So be it. May you rot until there’s nothing left.”
Before she could respond, the figure dissipated, leaving the air thick with an unnatural stillness. Eleanor released her grip on the locked handle and she slid to the floor, her thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and defiance.
Her heart ached for the gentle humor of the Death she had come to know.
And yet, her resolve held.
“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm.

***

Days again turned to weeks, the new Death’s frustration growing. It hammered at the door, shook the walls, screamed promises of torment. But Eleanor stood firm. Her body was still failing, though it would not relent. The mirror revealed a grotesque stranger staring back at her, and yet, her spirit burned brighter than ever.
She found herself talking to the silence where the first Death once stood, recounting memories, laughing at old jokes. She told the empty space about her garden, the flowers that once thrived, now withering in reverse. She whispered apologies for her stubbornness, confessions of fear, and gratitude for the company it had given her.
The following night, as the jagged Death’s rage reached a fever pitch, Eleanor heard a sigh—a soft, familiar sound that stilled her trembling.
“You always were a handful,” said the voice she’d come to know, warm and patient.
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “You came back. I-I’m tired,” she admitted, her voice breaking.
“I know.”
“But.. What if—what if it’s not better? What if it’s nothing?”
There was a pause, then: “What if it’s everything?”
She looked at the dizzying light that pierced through the keyhole, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
Eleanor hesitated, her hand brushing the lock. She thought of the garden, of Samuel’s laughter, of the weight that pressed on her every moment. Slowly, she turned the bolt and opened the door.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Death reassured her. “Come on. There’s a garden waiting for you.”
Eleanor stepped through, her fears dissolving in the warm light that poured into the room.
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