A Knock in the Night

As I hear the soft click of our son's bedroom door closing, I breathe a sigh of relief and take in the silence of the house.

It had been another long day, but it was over now and I was about to settle in for the night and binge-watch my latest TV show. With a smile on my face, I start thinking about my evening ahead when a harsh rapping on the door intrudes my thoughts.

It's an unusual time for someone to be knocking on our door, we don’t get visitors and it’s too late for door-to-door salesmen.

It couldn’t be… surely not.

My mind races back to that night, driving home in the storm.

The mournful howl of the wind set my nerves on edge. Rain was hammering against the windscreen so hard the wipers couldn’t keep up. The harsh crack of thunder filled the sky. I took a turn on the winding road just a little too fast and skidded. As I was correcting myself, I heard a dull thud against the front of the car. A black figure rolled across the road.

I panicked and just kept driving. I checked my rearview mirror, but I couldn’t see anything. By the time I got home, I felt awful. The guilt consumed me. I hardly slept a wink that night.

As I slowly rise from the lounge, I remember my trip back to the scene the following morning.

I parked the car and went for a walk around, but I couldn’t see any signs of unusual activity. I convinced myself I’d imagined the thud and was starting to feel better. Then, as I approached my car again, I noticed a small section of my front bumper was broken off.

A feeling of dread shot through me when I realised it hadn’t been my imagination. I’d definitely hit something.

I got back in my car and drove home. Parking my car in the driveway, I got out and walked towards the house. There was an object sitting on the ground at my front door. As I got closer, those feelings of dread returned. I picked up the familiar-looking object, turning it over in my hands. It appeared to be the missing part of my bumper. I walked back to my car and placed the piece in the section of the bumper where it was missing, and it fit perfectly.

As I start walking towards the door, I remember the strange occurrences that happened after that.

The following day I was unable to log into my Instagram account. Later, several of my friends called me to see if I was okay. When I asked why they were concerned, they said they had received Instagram messages from me saying I had done something bad and was in trouble.

The cold floorboards creak beneath my feet as I continue to the door.

A few days later, I came home from work to find my front door unlocked. I’m meticulous about checking it before I leave, so it was very odd to find I’d forgotten it on that particular day. Inside, everything appeared normal, except in my bedroom, I found my bed was unmade. I always make my bed before I go to work because I like coming home to a tidy bedroom. Forgetting both of these things on the same day felt far too suspicious.

As I advance towards the door, I remember driving home a few nights later and getting the feeling that someone was following me. After leaving the freeway, I made several turns and then realised that the car behind was taking all the same turns as me. They were just far away enough that I couldn’t detect the make or model of the car, but they seemed to be going the exact same way as I was. When I pulled into my driveway, they stopped in the street for a few minutes before driving away.

That was a couple of weeks ago. Since then, all the strange events had died down, and I thought it was over.

A shiver runs through me and, all of a sudden, I realise how chilly it is. I draw a deep breath to calm my nerves as I take another step towards the door.

I stop and shake my hands to try and stop them rattling.

A sense of foreboding floods me as I take my final step. My hand grasps the door handle. Its icy metallic feel is foreign to my touch.

I open the door, just in time to see the car pulling out of the driveway. I breathe a sigh of relief, and as I’m about to close the door again, I look down and notice a paper carry bag sitting at my doorstep.

I pick it up by the handle. It’s crumpled as if it’s been on a long journey. There’s an Uber logo on it.

The bag feels stiff in my hands. I wonder if I really want to open this.

“Did you order food?” I call to my husband.

“No.”