"Do Not Answer"

In the quiet, mist-wrapped town of Keswick, hidden deep in the English Lake District, lived a 72-year-old retired postmaster named Arthur Bell. He was a solitary man, living in his grandparents’ stone cottage—unchanged since the 1950s, dust thick on the shelves and clocks still ticking in rooms no one entered.

Arthur wasn’t lonely. He liked the silence, the routine. Until the morning of April 3rd, 2017.

That day, the mail brought something... wrong.

Among the usual junk mail and bills was a letter. No stamp, no return address. Just his name on the front: Arthur Bell, in elegant, unfamiliar handwriting. The envelope was old—yellowed and stiff—sealed with red wax marked with a strange symbol: a crescent inside a square.

His breath caught. Something ancient whispered from it.

Inside was a single line:

"When the bell rings twice, do not answer the door.

She is not who she says she is.

—R"

Arthur stared at the letter for minutes. His house was quiet, but the air seemed heavier. He looked out the window. Empty street. Not a soul in sight.

He tucked the letter into a drawer and tried to forget.

That night, it rained like the world was drowning.

At exactly 8:42 PM, his doorbell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Arthur froze, the letter's words echoing in his head. Slowly, heart pounding, he stepped toward the door and peeked through the peephole.

A woman stood there. Pale. Dripping wet. Her long black hair plastered to her face. She clutched a red umbrella and wore a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Mr. Bell?” she called sweetly. “I'm with the council. There’s been a gas leak reported in your area. May I come in to check your lines?”

Her voice was off. Too smooth. Too... practiced. Like something mimicking human kindness.

He said nothing. Didn’t move.

Then—without warning—her head snapped up. As if sensing his presence behind the door.

Her smile widened.

“You’re wise to wait, Mr. Bell. But not all doors stay closed.”

Arthur backed away. By the time he dared look again, she was gone.

The next day, he visited the town council. They had sent no one. Especially not in the storm.

Arthur began to sleep with a chair against the door.

Days passed.

Then came another letter.

Slid under the door in the dead of night.

"You did well. But it’s not over.

Watch for the man with the silver watch.

He carries answers.

—R"

This time, he didn’t wait. He took the letter to the police, but they dismissed it—just someone playing a prank. Maybe a bored teenager.

But Arthur knew better. There was an itch in his brain now. A memory he couldn’t reach.

Three days later, at the bakery, he saw him.

A tall man in a gray coat. Silver hair. Staring at the church clock tower. On his wrist—a shining silver watch.

Arthur approached carefully. “Excuse me, sir... that’s a fine timepiece.”

The man turned. His face was drawn, pale, eyes hollow.

“You got the letters,” he said. Not a question.

Arthur nodded.

They walked to the park, silent.

The man finally spoke. “I got my first letter in 1998. Same handwriting. Same seal. They always come before it does.”

“What is it?” Arthur asked.

The man shook his head. “Something old. Something that can’t get in... unless you let it.”

He handed Arthur a faded photo.

Five people stood before a crumbling manor. One of them—young and stern—was Arthur’s grandfather.

“They called themselves ‘The Hollow Watchers.’ They investigated local legends—ghosts, disappearances. In 1949, they went into that house. They came out... changed. One vanished six months later. Another was found drowned in her locked apartment.”

Arthur’s stomach turned. “My grandfather never spoke of those years.”

“He couldn’t. They made him forget. But they didn’t finish their job. That’s why it’s still here. Why we get the letters.”

That night, Arthur received a third letter.

"Midnight. The manor on Holloway Lane. Bring the photo.

Do not speak until spoken to.

—R"

He shouldn’t have gone.

But he did.

The manor loomed at the edge of town, draped in fog like mourning cloth. The door groaned open at his touch. Inside, the air was heavy—too still, as if time itself held its breath.

He stepped into the parlor and placed the photo on the mantel.

Midnight struck.

Suddenly, the room shimmered—changed.

It was 1949 again.

Candlelight. Velvet curtains. A fire crackling. The five Watchers stood in a circle, chanting. Arthur’s grandfather among them. But his face—was wrong. Blank. Hollow-eyed. His mouth moved, but his voice was not his own.

Then the shadows stirred.

Something moved on the ceiling. Long-limbed. Crawling. Watching.

Arthur tried to scream, but no sound came. A shape turned toward him—one of the Watchers. Her eyes glowed black.

“Too late,” she whispered. “You’ve opened it.”

And then—everything went dark.

He woke outside the manor at dawn. Clutching the photo. His hands were wet with blood—but he wasn’t injured.

He stumbled home and found the final letter waiting on his table.

"The door has opened.

It knows your name now.

You must warn the next.

Sleep with salt. Burn no candles.

Tell no lies.

—R"

Arthur never slept through the night again. Sometimes, when the wind howls through Keswick, neighbors say they hear knocking from inside his empty cottage.

Two knocks.

Always two.

And though Arthur died in 2021, the cottage remains sealed. Locals say letters still appear on the doorstep. No one dares open them.

Because if you do...

The bell rings twice.

And she will be waiting.