The Man at the Door

 The Man at the Door 

A short story written by Sean Ash

It began with a knock.

Richard opened the door to find a man in a long coat, standing confidently on the step. He had sharp eyes and a knowing smile, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been chosen. In his hand was a thick booklet, glossy and bold, with headlines that promised a better life.

“My name’s Nigel,” the man said. “And I’ve got something just for you.”

He tapped the booklet. “A package is already on the way. Inside is a little shiny pin, with your country’s flag on it. But it’s not just a pin. It’s proof. Proof that you matter. Proof that you’ve taken back what’s yours. They’ll all respect you once it’s pinned to your chest.”

Richard, in his late thirties and worn down by years of disillusionment, felt something stir in him. Hope. Pride. A sense of purpose. He glanced at the page Nigel held open.

“All you need to do,” Nigel said, “is sign here. One signature, and it’s yours.”

Below the line, the terms and conditions stretched on for pages. Dense, legal, unreadable. Richard squinted, then looked away.

“Do I need to read this?” he asked.

Nigel waved the thought off. “Just formality. The pin is what matters.”

His mother appeared behind him. “That’s not real,” she said quietly. “No one can promise that.”

His father joined her. “Don’t sign something you haven’t read. That man’s selling illusions.”

But Richard shook his head. “You don’t understand. He gets it. He’s offering something real, something we lost.”

And so he signed.

Nigel smiled, folded the booklet shut, and tapped the doorframe. “Wait by the window,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

So Richard waited.

Each morning, he rose early and sat by the glass, eyes fixed on the road. Days passed. No van. No package.

“Maybe there’s been a delay,” he said at first. “Maybe the rain slowed them down. These things take time.”

Weeks passed. Then months.

“The neighbours don’t want me to have it,” he muttered one day. “They’ve always been against me. I can feel it.”

He leaned closer to the window, watching them as they walked by.

“They’re not from this town anyway,” he said, louder now. “Not originally. I don’t even know if I can trust them. Maybe they’ve taken it. Maybe they stole it from me.”

And so he stood up, crossed the street, and knocked on their door.

The neighbour answered, polite but wary. “Can I help you?”

“My package,” Richard said. “The one Nigel promised. The pin. You’ve got it, haven’t you?”

The neighbour blinked. “Nigel? You mean that man in the coat? He came to our door too. Said the same things. We didn’t sign. We didn’t believe his lies. We read the terms and conditions.”

“They’re not lies!” Richard snapped. His voice trembled now, but it rose sharply. “You’re the lie! You’ve always been the lie!”

The neighbour tried to speak, but Richard was already walking away, fists clenched, muttering to himself.

Back at his window, he watched with sharper eyes. He no longer spoke to his parents. He no longer nodded at passers-by. He simply waited.

And then, as before, came a knock.

Nigel stood there, calm and smiling. “They stopped it,” he said. “The neighbours. The doubters. The ones who don’t belong here. But don’t worry, I’ve got something even better. New pin. Gold edge. Sharper shine. I just need a second signature.”

Richard’s face lit up like the sun through the clouds. He opened the door wide, threw his arms around Nigel, holding him like an old friend, like a saviour. He laughed with relief. “I knew you’d come back,” he said. “I knew you’d return.”

And Nigel smiled, letting himself be held.

Because Nigel knew.

Nigel had always known.

He was using him.

Richard signed again.

Nigel vanished.

And for the rest of his life, Richard sat by the window, watching the road.

Each morning. Each evening.

Waiting.

Hoping.

But nothing ever came.

Nothing ever arrived.

And he never saw Nigel again.

The end.