The Outer Door

Bram had cleared the hall before the footprint could reach the front door.

He had carried the boot tray, the umbrella stand, and the basket of kindling out through the kitchen. He had rolled the runner and leaned it against the wall. Nothing loose remained between the unfinished room and the front step. Still, the print sat in the dust, its toes aimed at the door.

He crouched beside it with a steel rule. The impression was deep at the heel and shallow at the ball, as if a person had put weight down and started forward. He measured it twice. The result stayed the same: eleven inches long, narrow at the arch. A human foot, give or take.

The floorboards around it showed no matching track.

Bram wrote the measurement on the back of an envelope. He wanted a record before another draft, another careless step, or the sweep of his own sleeve changed the evidence. The footprint had appeared after the lath broke. That sequence mattered. So did its direction.

He stood and checked the gap at the room’s threshold. Its cut edge remained exposed. He had removed the broken lath and every shaving he could find. A strip of daylight showed under the doorless opening, thin as a pencil line.

The phone rang in the kitchen. Bram left it until the fourth ring, then went to answer.

Hettie’s voice came through before he could say hello. “I’m outside. Are you there?”

“Kitchen.”

“I’ll come in.”

He looked toward the front hall. “Wait on the porch. I’m coming to you.”

He opened the front door and found her standing with both hands in the pockets of her coat. Her eyes went past him to the bare floor. She took in the removed runner, the empty place where the umbrella stand usually stood, then the print.

“You cleared the path,” she said.

“I cleared everything that could bridge the opening.”

Hettie leaned slightly, studying the footprint. “It went farther.”

“Same print. Same place.”

“Bram.”

“I know what you mean.” He moved aside. “Come in. Stay on the boards by the wall.”

She stepped over the door sill. Bram closed the door behind her and kept his hand on the knob for a moment, checking the latch. It caught cleanly. The door was old, but the strike plate lined up. He had tested it the day before.

Hettie looked at the latch, then at the footprint. “You tested that?”

“I tested the door. It works.”