[Mystery] Who Can It Be Now?
Read the winning entry for our July 4, 2025 prompt, "Knock at the door"
Neurodivergent Narratives Presents: ‘Knock On The Door’ Contest
A contest with some mystery to it.
At Least Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie Got Warned
By Elena Kay Greenwell
It feels like I’m drowning while treading water as hard as I can. The apparently trivial chatter hasn't stopped for a moment since she came. It's only after she's moved through several more stories that I recognise what the first one was really about.
She knocked while I was deep into mythology research. She’ll have seen my suppressed freakout when I answered the door. I wasn't expecting her, so there are laundry and dishes everywhere, and the bathroom is icky. There's a jar of Buddha's Sister (27% THC) on the coffee table – pray she doesn’t recognise it. The song by Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie won't stop running in my head. *Mom's come to my house.*
Why is she here? I'm three stories behind when I grasp that the real point of the first story is that she can't cope with her feelings about seeing a bike accident. My mother, who laughs about giving me snacks that could literally kill me, needs to be reassured about my bike safety practices. The next story boiled down to how she could respond to a racist relative in a non-racist yet inoffensive way, but without exerting any real effort. The topic keeps changing until it's all a blur. I’ve slowly learned that most of her stories have hidden demands or messages. It’s not safe to compare her stories over time – too much cognitive dissonance for me, and she reacts badly if made aware of her inconsistencies. She hogs every conversation. I can *feel* her boredom vibrating in the air if I dare change topics. I can *see* her internal narrator altering history and reality as required to conform to her current expectations.
Some of Mom's trivial chatter is just that, but much of it is packed with so much fear, pain, or projection that it might explode. Did my aunt install her air conditioner? Mom didn’t yet, despite the heatwave – too much clutter – so projection demands that my aunt be suffering clutter-induced heatstroke. "Probably Aunt would visit an air-conditioned library, coffeeshop, or mall if she couldn't install the AC." Have I badgered my aunt yet about giving up her house? Surely Aunt can't handle the stairs anymore, because Mom's legs aren't working properly anymore. "Mom, have you talked to your doctor?" Flimflam excuses ensue; doctors are useless, and she won't take any painkillers. If her talks with doctors are anything like her talks with me, no wonder they haven’t helped. Neither of us say that only her control issues prevent her from getting a helper or adding a ground-floor laundry. There are no solutions, only problems, unless the solution is **exactly** what my mother wants it to be, which is often impossible.
She came to drown me in her unwanted, toxic emotions; that's what she came for. When she leaves and I can think more clearly, I'll be drowning in mine too.
Greyworld
By Katherine Stewart
A sharp rap at the door and I leap up, disturbed. I pull my door open, but in the dark, I can’t see anyone. Suddenly, an arm appears and roughly grabs my shoulder. Before I know it, I have been pulled to somewhere else. Stumbling, I look around and see a sunny, springtime woodland, completely different to the street I usually step onto from my front door.
The woodland is a wonderland, with trees and bushes a whole palette of different greens. Spring flowers of vibrant colours are dotted over the ground. Whoever pulled me through to this glorious place is making away, and I turn quickly to follow. In pursuit, I pass a waterfall with sublime pools and sprays of rainbows, open green fields full of pink orchids, a wide river and a tiny hamlet with houses painted in different colours.
The enigmatic man I’m following finally stops outside a house, and I sit down next to him with a thousand questions running through my head. Where am I? Why and how am I here?
But the first thing that I blurt out is: “It’s so beautiful here. The countryside is wonderful with so many bright colours.”
My companion appears confused and decidedly grumpy.
“Like the sunset,” I point at the descending sun, throwing glorious rays of red, orange and yellow into the sky. “Those reds are truly resplendent.”
He shakes his head and hardly gives the sunset a glance: “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The red in the sky,” I respond. “Like this poppy here.” I pick the poppy from the ground and show it to him.
“That’s just grey.”
“What about the blue river down there,” and I point to the wide river snaking away from us in the distance.
“Grey,” he shakes his head, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger.
I continue to question him, unable to believe his responses. Everything appears grey to him, and he does not seem able to understand my joy at his colourful world.
I stare at the dour man next to me, wondering what it would be like to live in a world devoid of colour, and I feel an overwhelming sense of pity. I open my mouth, thinking I will try to explain how I experience the vast array of colours that make up the world, but no words come out.
My companion must have noticed my expression change, as he starts and jumps up. He appears to become more dark and snarls aggressively at me. I rise and start running away from him, making for a dark area behind some trees. An opening appears, and I step through.
Thankfully, I have found a way back to my front door, which is still ajar. I slip through and collapse on my patchwork sofa, glad that Greyworld is behind me and I’m back in my world where colours are a joy to be shared.
The Spring House: A Bridge To The Past
By Lindsee Garlock-Thornton