Chapter 6: Threshold Greeting
The saw’s final, grating shriek faded into a ringing silence. White dust motes swirled in the slanting afternoon light, catching in Travis’s throat as he carefully lifted away the rectangular piece of drywall. A cool, dark rectangle stared back at him from the baseboard. He set the cutout piece aside, his fingers leaving smudges in the fine white powder.
He leaned down, peering into the opening. It was a clean cut, revealing the wooden stud on one side and the shadowy cavity of the wall’s innards on the other. The air that drifted out smelled of ancient plaster, insulation, and something else—a faint, musky scent that was uniquely Mavis.
Travis held his breath, listening.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the distant kitchen and the thud of his own heart in his ears. Had the noise scared him? The violence of the cut, the sudden invasion of light into his hidden world?
Then, a scratch. Not the frantic scratch of the cat-era, but a slow, deliberate drag. A pebble skittered somewhere in the darkness behind the new opening.
Travis lowered himself, his body sprawling stomach-down on the floorboards. He aligned his face with the hole. “Hey,” he whispered, the word swallowed by the cavernous space inside the wall.
A pair of eyes glinted in the deep shadow, ten inches back from the new threshold. They watched him, unblinking.
“It’s just a door,” Travis said, his voice soft. “Your door.”
The eyes shifted, moving closer with a soft, rustling sound. Mavis’s small form resolved from the gloom, stopping just at the edge of the light pouring in from Travis’s room. He stood in the opening, five inches of cautious curiosity, his tiny hands braced on the rough lower edge of the drywall. He was covered in a fine layer of the same white dust that coated Travis’s floor, making him look like a ghostly little sculptor.
He blinked up at the giant human face filling his new sky.
Travis smiled, a genuine, slow-spreading grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Hello, my little mousey.”
Mavis tilted his head, the dust on his shoulders shifting. “Mousey,” he repeated, his voice a dry chirp. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s clear,” Travis said, nodding towards the opening. “I checked for wires. It’s all yours.”
Mavis didn’t move. He studied the edges of the cut, his gaze critical. “A bit rustic,” he remarked. “Very ‘early skeletal.’ You couldn’t have sanded it first?”
“You said to cut it straight. You didn’t say anything about a finish grade.” Travis rested his chin on his folded arms, getting comfortable on the hard floor. “The frame comes next. Smooth quarter-round. No splinters.”
Mavis took a single, tentative step forward, crossing the threshold from his world into Travis’s. He stood on the very edge of the cut-out, his tiny feet on the raw edge of the interior drywall paper. He looked down at the vast, ocean-floor expanse of Travis’s bedroom carpet, then up at Travis’s face, so close now.
“The scale is… intimidating,” Mavis admitted, his bravado fraying for a second.
“You’ll get used to it.” Travis wiggled his fingers slowly towards him, not to touch, just to gauge the distance. “And you’ve got the ladder, remember? For the big climbs.”
Mavis’s eyes darted to the coiled rope ladder Travis had left nearby. He seemed to steel himself, puffing his chest out a little under the coating of dust. “Right. The ladder.” He took another step, now fully standing on the cut-out piece of drywall Travis had removed. It was his island.
He looked around, taking in the room from this drastically new, low angle. The bed loomed like a continental landmass. The nightstand was a sheer cliff face. His gaze finally returned to Travis, who hadn’t moved, his giant head still pillowed on his arms.
“You’re staring,” Mavis said, a flicker of his old tease returning.
“You’re covered in my wall,” Travis replied.
Mavis looked down at himself, brushing a hand over his arm. A small cloud of dust puffed into the air. “So I am.” He took a final, decisive step off the drywall island and onto the actual carpet. The fibers came up to his shins. He wobbled slightly, then steadied.
This was it. The first time Mavis had voluntarily stood on the open floor of the room. No hole for quick retreat. Just open air.
Travis didn’t dare breathe too loudly. He watched as Mavis turned in a slow circle, a conqueror on a strange, shaggy shore.
“It’s… bigger from down here,” Mavis said, his voice hushed.
“Everything is.”
Mavis looked back at the dark rectangle of his new door, then at the vast room. A slow smile spread across his tiny, dust-smudged face. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated possibility. “I’m going to need a lot more string.”
Travis laughed, the sound booming in the quiet room. Mavis flinched, then grinned up at him.
“Sorry,” Travis murmured.
“Don’t be.” Mavis took a few experimental steps through the carpet forest. He reached out and touched the towering leg of the nightstand, his hand barely spanning its width. “This is good wood. Solid.”
“Glad you approve.”
Mavis wandered back towards him, his movements growing more confident. He stopped a few inches from Travis’s face, looking directly into one of his eyes. From this distance, Travis could see every detail: the fine grain of his skin, the different colors in his irises, a small scar above his eyebrow.
“Thank you,” Mavis said, the words simple and stark, stripped of all sarcasm.
Travis’s throat tightened. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Mavis’s expression shifted, the moment of sincerity folding back into his usual playful smirk. “Now, about that other access point. The… strategic one.”
Travis felt a warm flush spread up his neck. “What about it?”
“Is it cut?”
“Not yet.”
“Planning to?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Travis pushed himself up slowly onto his elbows, so he wouldn’t startle Mavis with a sudden movement. “Tonight. After I frame this door. So you’ve got both by morning.”
Mavis considered this, tapping a dusty finger against his chin. “Efficient. I like it. A busy human is a predictable human.” He walked right up to Travis’s hand, which was resting palm-down on the floor. He placed both of his own hands on the side of Travis’s index finger, as if warming them by a log. “It’s cold on the floor.”
“It’s April,” Travis said, but he didn’t move his hand.
Mavis leaned his forehead against Travis’s finger for a second, a brief, quiet gesture of contact. Then he pushed off, stepping back towards his doorway. “Don’t let me keep you from your labors, oh mighty architect. I have a foyer to furnish.” He gave a dramatic, dusty bow, then scampered back into the dark rectangle, disappearing from view.
Travis listened to the receding scratches inside the wall, a smile lingering on his lips. He slowly got to his knees, his joints protesting. The work wasn’t done. He still had to frame the doorway with the trim, sand it smooth, attach the tiny hinges and latch. And then there was the other cut to make.
He worked through the evening, the room filling with the rhythmic sound of sanding and the sharp, clean smell of cut wood. He attached the quarter-round, creating a neat frame that covered the drywall’s raw edge. He screwed the tiny brass hinges onto the small door he’d fashioned from a piece of oak, then attached it to the frame. It swung open and closed with a satisfying, whisper-soft click.
He installed the latch—a small, brass cabinet catch that Mavis would be able to work from the inside. He tested it over and over, his large fingers fumbling with the tiny mechanism until it operated smoothly.
Finally, he drilled two small holes at the top of the doorframe and secured one end of the rope ladder. He let it uncoil down to the floor, the rungs settling on the carpet.
He sat back, admiring his work. It looked like a bizarre, exquisite dollhouse door set into the baseboard. It was hidden behind the nightstand, visible only if you were looking for it.
Darkness had fallen. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light around him. He was covered in sawdust and sweat, but a profound sense of completion settled over him.
He picked up the drywall saw again and moved to the bed. The pencil ‘X’ by the pillow looked back at him, a secret promise. This cut would be smaller, just a square large enough for the panel he’d made, which he’d lined with felt to ensure silent operation.
The act of cutting here felt different. More intimate. The saw’s crunch was louder in the quiet room. He worked slowly, precisely, removing the square of drywall to reveal the same dark cavity. He fitted the panel in, a perfect, smooth-plug. It was almost invisible, its edges hidden by the frame he’d built.
He lay down on the bed, staring at the panel. It was at eye-level now. He reached out and pressed it gently. It gave way with a soft click, swinging inward an inch on its hidden hinges before springing back closed. A perfectly disguised entry.
From the other side of the wall, he heard a faint, answering click.
Travis smiled in the dark. He didn’t open it. That was for Mavis to do, when and if he chose.
He lay there for a long time, listening. The house was quiet, but it was a different quiet than before. It was a quiet full of potential, humming with the promise of new connections. He heard a distant, rhythmic tapping from inside the wall—Mavis, presumably, hammering something minute into place. The sound was soft, persistent, alive.
Travis closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, the first test of the rope ladder. Tomorrow, the first time Mavis might use the higher panel. Tomorrow, a new routine would begin to form.
But for tonight, this was enough. The doors were made. The pathways were open. The loneliness that usually seeped into the corners of the room felt thinner, pushed back by the gentle sounds of construction coming from within the walls.
Just before sleep took him, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible vibration through the mattress near his shoulder. A tiny weight settling on the other side of the drywall, right behind the new panel. A quiet, conscious presence.
He didn’t move. Neither did Mavis.
They just rested there, close together, separated by only a thin layer of plaster and a secret, perfectly fitted door.
They just rested there, close together, separated by only a thin layer of plaster and a secret, perfectly fitted door.
Sleep claimed Travis deeply, a solid, dreamless weight after the day’s labor. He swam up from it hours later, not to his alarm, but to a skittering lightness tracing his spine. It was a faint, scrambling sensation, a mouse running under a blanket. Consciousness seeped in slowly, bringing the reality: there was no blanket. Just his thin cotton t-shirt.
He’d fallen asleep in the clothes he’d worn after his shower last night. The shirt was rumpled, riding up his back. Something small and quick moved beneath it, over the skin of his lower back.
Travis smiled into the fabric of his pillow, a slow, unthinking curl of his lips. He squirmed a bit under the ticklish touch, a reflexive arch of his spine. The movement stilled the tiny explorer for a second.
“You’re awake,” Mavis’s voice chirped, muffled by the shirt. His little hands pressed flat against Travis’s shoulder blade, bracing.
“Something’s crawling on me,” Travis murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Might be a bug. A big, talking bug.”
He felt the distinct pinch of two tiny fingers through the cotton, grabbing a fold of skin and muscle. “Rude.” Mavis’s weight shifted, walking in a careful line across the broad terrain of Travis’s back. “I’m testing the new infrastructure. The ladder is serviceable, though the rope is coarse.”
“You climbed it?” Travis’s eyes opened fully now, staring at the grainy texture of his pillowcase.
“Of course I climbed it. You think I’d let a seven-foot vertical gain go unconquered?” Mavis’s path curved, tracing the dip of Travis’s spine. “The handholds are adequate. The summit, however, is excessively soft and prone to sudden seismic activity.”
Travis chuckled, the vibration rippling under Mavis’s feet. He felt Mavis stagger, then hop to regain balance. “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Mavis arrived at the base of Travis’s neck, just where his hairline began. A tiny, warm weight settled there, sitting. Travis could feel the faint pressure of Mavis’s legs dangling against his skin. “You snore, by the way. It’s a low rumble, like distant machinery. Quite soothing, in a monstrous kind of way.”
“Glad I could provide ambiance.” Travis didn’t move. He savored the bizarre, perfect intimacy: the warmth, the weight, the candid commentary from the creature on his neck. Sunlight, thin and pale with morning, painted the wall opposite the bed. It illuminated the seamless panel, their secret. “You try the other one yet?”
The little legs swung gently. “The high-altitude access point? I inspected it. The latch is smooth. The felt is a nice touch. Very quiet.”
“But you didn’t open it.”
A pause. The legs stilled. “It’s for a specific purpose. It seemed… presumptuous to use it for a casual survey.”
Travis absorbed that. The care in the statement, the respect for their unspoken protocols. Mavis’s boundaries were as intricate as the paths in his walls. “Fair enough.”
Silence settled between them, comfortable and warm. Travis closed his eyes again, focusing on the pinpoint pressure on his neck, the sound of Mavis’s quiet breathing so close to his ear. He could feel his own heartbeat, a slow thud he imagined Mavis could feel through his skin.
“Your back is vast,” Mavis said, his tone observational. “From up here, it’s like a prairie. A slightly hairy, topographic prairie.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not an insult. It’s scalable. I appreciate a scalable landscape.” Mavis lay back, his entire tiny form stretching out across the width of Travis’s neck. The contact was breathtakingly complete. “This spot is warm. The sun hits your shirt here.”
Travis hummed in acknowledgment, afraid words might break the spell. He let himself drift in the sensation, the absolute oddity and rightness of it. This was what he’d built the doors for. Not for the mechanics, but for this: a sleepy, wordless morning with a friend.
After a long while, Mavis sat back up. “I’m hungry. Your kitchen is a continent away.”
“There’s a banana on the counter. Probably got freckles by now.”
“I despise the stringy bits.” Mavis stood, his small feet pattering a descending path down Travis’s shoulder, back under the shirt. “And the scale is all wrong. It’s like trying to eat a building.”
Travis smiled. “Use a thread. Tie it to a piece. Drag it back.”
“An expedition.” Mavis’s voice grew fainter as he navigated down Travis’s side. “I’ll need supplies. A tiny canteen. Perhaps a flag.” The weight left him entirely, dipping the mattress near his hip. Travis heard the soft, almost inaudible snick of the small door by the pillow opening and closing.
He waited a full minute before rolling over. The morning light was stronger now, filling the room. He looked at the perfect, painted seam of the panel. Nothing looked different. It was just a wall.
From deep in the house, he imagined he heard the faintest scuffle of a mission underway. A smile lingered on his face as he threw back the covers. The day felt larger, full of unseen potential. His feet hit the floor, and he padded towards the kitchen, already planning to leave a few choice, non-stringy banana pieces on a specific corner of the counter.
He was rinsing his coffee mug when a thought struck him, clean and bright as the morning light on the linoleum. He walked back to the bedroom, knelt by the new door in the baseboard, and gently swung it open on its tiny hinges.
Inside, on the smoothed floor of the wall cavity, was a pebble. Next to it, arranged in a careful line, were three blue sequins, a discarded button, and a single, straight pin. A collection. A start.
Travis left the door open, an invitation to the vast, terrifying, wonderful outside world. He returned to the kitchen, the quiet house humming around him, alive with secret, purposeful movement.
He returned to the kitchen, the quiet house humming around him, alive with secret, purposeful movement. He filled the coffee maker, the gurgle and hiss a comfortable, solitary sound. Sunlight cut across the linoleum, illuminating dancing dust motes and a single, perfect banana slice left neatly on the corner of the counter.
The peanut butter came next, then the bread. He dropped a pat of butter into a scratched non-stick pan, watching it sizzle and foam. The first pancake batter spread into a lopsided circle, the edges bubbling. He was focused on the flip, the spatula poised, when he felt the first touch.
It was a faint, scrambling pressure against his bare calf, just above his sock. He froze, mid-flip. A second later, tiny, determined hands found purchase on the fabric of his cargo shorts, hauling up.
Travis held his breath, utterly still. The climb was rapid, a sequence of minuscule tugs and presses against his thigh, his hip, the side of his ribcage. He could chart Mavis’s progress by the trail of faint, prickling sensation. The little creature reached his shoulder, small feet balancing on the shelf of Travis’s collarbone.
A tiny hand gripped a fistful of his t-shirt for stability. Travis slowly, carefully, executed the pancake flip. It landed with a soft, buttery thud.
“WHY DID YOU OPEN THE DOOR?” came Mavis’s tiny voice, shouted directly into his ear over the kitchen noise.
Travis kept his eyes on the pancake, a smile threatening his composed expression. “Which one?”
“The main one! The big, gaping one on the floor!” Mavis’s grip tightened. “It’s like you’ve unfurled a welcome mat for every field mouse and centipede in the county. I left a curated collection there, not an invitation for vagrants.”
“I saw the sequins.” Travis slowly slid the finished pancake onto a plate. He poured more batter. “It looked like a museum exhibit. I didn’t want to close it on your display.”
“It was a statement.” Mavis shifted his weight, his voice dropping from a shout to its usual pitch, now that he had Travis’s full attention. “Now it’s just a hole. You undermine my artistic curation with your reckless openness.”
“You climbed a seven-foot rope ladder to tell me that?” Travis flipped another pancake. He could feel Mavis’s warmth through his shirt, a live, humming weight on his shoulder. “Seems like the open door policy has its perks.”
Mavis huffed, a small, puff of air against Travis’s neck. “The pancake smells acceptable.”
“You want some?”
“The scale is prohibitive. I’d drown in a syrup lake.”
“I’ll make a bite-sized one.” Travis took a clean bottle cap from the recycling bin, washed it quickly, and placed it in the center of the pan. He carefully dribbled batter into the tiny, circular mold.
Mavis fell silent, watching this operation. The small pancake puffed up, golden and perfect. Travis delicately loosened it with the tip of a knife, flipping it onto the plate beside its giant brethren. He drizzled the smallest dot of syrup onto it, then placed the plate on the table.
He sat down. Mavis disembarked, leaping from his shoulder to the wooden tabletop with a soft tap. He approached the bottle-cap pancake, which was nearly as wide as he was tall. He circled it, scrutinizing.
“This is absurd,” Mavis stated, but there was no heat in it. He put his hands on the warm, spongy edge and leaned in, taking a tentative bite. He chewed thoughtfully. “Adequate.”
Travis ate his own stack, watching. Mavis ate with a peculiar, focused delicacy, making slow progress around the pancake’s circumference. Sunlight warmed the table between them. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and Mavis’s tiny, diligent chewing.
Mavis finished, wiping his hands on his dust-streaked trousers. He looked from Travis to the open doorway of the kitchen, then back at the vast, carpeted expanse of the living room beyond. His mischievous glint returned.
“Your turn,” Mavis said.
“For what?”
“A test.” Mavis pointed a tiny finger toward the living room couch. “You left the main door open. I am out. Let’s see the transit system. Carry me.”
Travis raised an eyebrow. “You want a ride?”
“I want an evaluation of safe passage protocols.” Mavis crossed his arms. “The floor is a treacherous terrain of carpet monsters and foot-shaped apocalypses. I need to know I can signal for a lift.”
Travis finished his last bite, considering. He slowly extended his hand, palm flat on the table beside Mavis. After a moment’s theatrical sigh, Mavis stepped onto it, settling in the center of his palm.
The weight was nothing, but the responsibility felt immense. Travis stood up, moving with a slow, oceanic steadiness. He walked the short distance from the kitchen into the living room, each step measured. Mavis stood upright in his hand, one hand shielding his eyes from the perceived breeze, peering over the edge like a sailor on a crow's nest.
“The vista is terrifying,” Mavis announced, his voice full of mock awe. “I can see the dust beneath your television stand. It’s a wasteland.”
Travis lowered his hand to the arm of the couch. Mavis stepped off, onto the coarse weave of the fabric. He immediately began to explore, walking the length of the armrest, tapping the leather. He reached the end, looked down at the yawning drop to the cushion below, and turned back.
“This will do,” he pronounced. “An acceptable outpost. Now, the return journey.”
Travis offered his hand again. This time, Mavis climbed on without hesitation. As Travis carried him back toward the kitchen, Mavis sat down, his legs dangling over the side of Travis’s palm. He leaned back against the curve of Travis’s fingers, a picture of tiny, transported royalty.
Back at the table, Mavis didn’t immediately disembark. He sat in Travis’s hand, looking at the empty plate, the bottle cap, the ordinary morning scene now irrevocably changed.
“The door stays open,” Mavis said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
“If you want,” Travis said, his voice equally soft.
Mavis nodded once, a decisive little dip of his chin. Then he looked up at Travis, his expression shifting into something sly. “The high-altitude access point, however, remains on a strict, need-to-know basis.”
A laugh burst out of Travis, sudden and sharp. “Obviously.”
“Good.” Mavis finally climbed off, jumping back to the table. He walked to the edge, looking down at the long drop to the chair seat, then the even longer drop to the floor. He glanced back at Travis. “The ladder, please. I have a foyer to finish. And you…” He gestured a tiny hand at the dirty dishes. “You have a mess to clean. The syrup is already congealing. It’s a biohazard.”
Travis watched him march to the table’s edge, a tiny general surveying his next challenge. He placed his hand down, creating a bridge to the chair. Mavis crossed it without a word, then descended to the floor via the chair’s crossbar, his movements sure and quick. He scurried across the linoleum, a small, focused streak, and disappeared under the kitchen doorway.
A moment later, Travis heard the faint, definitive click of the small, felt-lined panel by the bed snapping shut.
He smiled, alone again with the quiet hum of the house. He gathered the plates. The bottle cap was sticky with a single drop of syrup. He washed it carefully, the metal cool and small in his hand, and placed it back in the recycling bin. It was just a piece of trash again. But for a moment, it had been a plate. A shared morning. A new, open door.