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“The sound came through muted and indistinct, a chair being knocked over onto the carpet or the muffled buzzing of a conversation . . . I hurled myself against the door before it was too late and shut it, leaned on it with the weight of my body . . . I ran the great bolt into place, just to be safe.”

The first time the narrator hears the intruders, his description of them is ominously vague. The details do not reveal who or what the intruders are. The fact that the narrator reacts immediately by fleeing rather than investigating the source of the noise is a metaphor for his fear of the unknown. The tone of fear and dread is enhanced by the narrator’s extreme reaction to rush to bar the door and seal away the unknown. Rather than confront the intruders, the narrator feels compelled to keep them away at all costs to maintain his isolation.

“I had to shut the door to the passage. They’ve taken over the back part.”

She let her knitting fall and looked at me with her tired, serious eyes. . . .

“In that case,” she said, picking up her needles again, “we’ll just have to live on this side.”

After the narrator barricades the door against the unknown intruders, he informs Irene who accepts the news without question. The lack of curiosity she displays about the intruders reveals her distrust of the unknown. The only indication that Irene is discomfited by the news is the description of her tired, serious eyes and that she pauses her knitting. She also pauses knitting only for a moment before resuming because the act is her comfort and coping mechanism for processing distress. Both Irene and the narrator would rather accept that they have lost a part of their home than face anything unknown or uncomfortable.

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