The Door That Wouldn’t Stay Shut

The latch turned another fraction. Bram put his shoulder against the front door and felt the bolt drag inside its plate.

Hettie caught his sleeve. “Don’t hold it shut.”

The footprints behind them crossed the hall one at a time. Each print darkened the old boards, a damp, narrow impression where no wet feet had been. They started at the unfinished room and stopped a few feet short of Bram’s boots. The front door shivered against his shoulder.

“Why?” he said.

“Because you’re making it hold.” Hettie’s eyes stayed on the door. “Get the screwdriver.”

The latch turned again. Bram felt the door push back, steady and deliberate. He had cleared the hall so nothing could bridge the room’s open threshold. There was no strip of lath, no loose shoe, no coat hem. Still, the prints had come this far.

He stepped aside.

The pressure vanished. The door settled against its frame, and the latch stopped moving.

For a second, the house was quiet. Bram picked up the screwdriver from the side table. It felt absurdly small in his hand.

Hettie pointed to the deadbolt. “Leave that alone.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“I know what you were going to do.” Her voice stayed low. “Take out the latch plate. Don’t let it catch.”

Bram looked at the front door. The bolt had retreated into its housing. The knob stood still. He checked the jamb and the strike plate, the way he would check any door that stuck. The screws were old, the upper one stripped at the head. A practical defect. He could enlarge the opening, improve the fit, make it work properly.

He lowered the screwdriver. “You want me to make the door worse.”

“I want it to stay open.”

Behind them, a board creaked in the hall.

Hettie’s hand closed around his wrist. Her grip was stronger than he expected. “Please, Bram.”

He went to the plate. The first screw resisted, then came out with a gritty scrape. The sound traveled through the house. From the unfinished room came a knock, once, against the marked stud.

Bram froze with the screw between his fingers.

The door knob turned.

He worked faster. The second screw came free. He pried the plate out with the screwdriver tip, and the old wood around it splintered. A dark, ragged hole remained in the jamb. Nothing could catch there now.

The knob rotated hard enough to rattle. The door swung inward a finger’s width.