Knock Twice

Deep within the forest there lived a hunter and his wife. They had been married for five years but had no children, though they had tried many times.

Every morning the hunter would rise, get dressed, kiss his wife good morning and head into the forest to hunt pheasant for food and deer for their hide. His wife would tend the garden. She grew herbs for medicines and remedies, an art she would never have been permitted to practice amongst the village people.

Every night the hunter would return home and the two would share a meagre supper before falling asleep in each other’s arms. Though their lives were simple, they were happy.

Then, one winter’s night, it began.

Knock knock.

A knocking at the door. Soft. Gentle, but just loud enough to wake the hunter from his slumber.

Knock knock.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the hunter took up his gun and approached the door.

“Who is there?”

No answer came except for the steady knock knock.

The hunter lifted the latch and opened the door.

Cold winter air blew into the little house sending snow scattering across the threshold.

The hunter stared out into the darkness.

There was no one there.

He looked this way and that, but saw no one. Thinking that he had imagined the knocking, the hunter shut the door and returned to bed.

As morning came, the hunter went about his day as usual, forgetting about the knocking. He returned home from hunting, kissed his wife in the garden, ate a rabbit and turnip stew, then fell asleep amongst the wolf furs of the bed.

Knock knock.

He awoke. There it was again. He glanced to his wife to see if she had heard it too, but she lay fast asleep, curled up amongst the furs and blankets, oblivious to it all.

Knock knock.

“Who is there?” he asked, fingers curling round his rifle. “What do you want?”

Knock knock.

“Who are you?”

Knock knock.

Throwing the door open, the hunter aimed his gun. But there was nothing there except the pale light of the moon.

This continued for the next three nights, and every time the hunter opened the door, there was never anyone there.

“Do you ever hear that knocking at night?” the hunter asked his wife one day at supper.

“What knocking?” she replied. “I never hear anything at night.”

“Every night for the past five days someone has knocked at the door,” the hunter explained. “But when I go to answer it, no one is there.”

“It is probably just some boys from the village playing games,” his wife replied. “Try to ignore it if you hear it again.”

That night, he wrapped his arms around his wife and closed his eyes. The hunter slipped peacefully into sleep, believing himself to be safe at last, and for a while everything was peaceful.

Knock knock.

He woke with a start.

Knock knock.

He stared at the door, frozen in place, skin slick with sweat. “What do you want?”

Knock knock.

“Who are you?”

Knock knock.

“Answer me!”

Knock knock.

Throwing the furs off, the hunter grabbed his gun. He stood before the door, gun aimed, hand resting on the latch. “Who is there? I demand that you answer me.”

Silence.

The hunter lifted the latch and threw open the door.

Snow blew up into his face, swirling like smoke from a fire. He lifted a hand, shielding his eyes before aiming his gun at the winter darkness. “Who is there? I know you are there! I heard you knocking.”

Silence.

“Do you think this is a game?”

The forest did not answer.

“It is not funny.” He stood in the doorway, gun ready, scanning the darkness. Whoever had been knocking had run off, clearly unwilling to reveal themselves. “If you come back again I will shoot you,” the hunter threatened. He stood there a few moments longer before relinquishing, shutting the door behind him and leaning his gun against the wall. He slipped back amongst the furs alongside his wife and rolled onto his back.

The latch on the door flicked open, and whatever was outside came in.

The furs at the bottom of the bed began to shift as something crawled under them. It slithered up the bed towards the hunter.

Something cold touched the his foot and he awoke with a gasp. He flung himself out of bed, watching as the mound grew larger and larger. It rose up, the furs clinging to it, hiding the figure beneath. As the mound reached its full height, the furs fell away revealing nothing.

The darkness seemed to cling to him, so the hunter grabbed a candle from the mantlepiece and struck a match.

In the warm glow of the flame he saw it.

Eyes white like a maggot, skin the colour of curdled milk. Twigs and vines protruded from the skin, snaking their way under the flesh like veins.

Dropping the match, the hunter stumbled back, eyes fixed on the figure. But as soon as the fire was extinguished, the figure was gone.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“You left me to rot.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

The Hunter lurched forwards towards the bed. He whipped round to face the assailant, but there was nothing there. “What do you want?”

“You took her from me.”

The door banged open. Snow rushed in as the silver light of the moon illuminated the figure.

“Oh dear God.”

The figure stepped over the threshold, their legs creaking like branches in the wind. Their hair was long and matted with leaves and mud.

“Brother,” the hunter gasped. “How are you here?”

“I have come for what is mine.”

“You are dead. I… I saw you buried.”

“My coffin was empty, as you well know.”

The hunter shook his head, retreating until his back pressed against the bed. “It’s not true.”

“Do not lie to me. The dead know all truths.”

“Was it you who was knocking?”

The figure turned to the bed, his milky eyes falling upon the hunter’s wife.

“You cannot have her,” the hunter said. “She is not yours to take.”

“She was meant to be mine. She chose me,” the figure spat. “But you killed me for her hand. You killed me and left me to the forest.”

The wind howled through the house, banging the shutters against the window.

The hunter drew back watching the furs slip off the bed as his wife rose.

“No. Please. I beg you. Do not take her.”

Her nightgown fell about her ankles as she walked towards the figure.

“You took my life, so now I’ll take her,” the figure replied.

As the hunter’s wife approached him, the figure held out his hand to her. She took it, glanced one final time at the hunter, before walking out into the cold.

“Bring her back,” the hunter yelled. He rushed to the door, but the storm swirled so fiercely that he could only just make out the two figures slipping away into the darkness. “Bring her back!” He ploughed forward into the snow, but the wind was too strong and the air too cold. He had lost her. He had lost her forever.

The hunter was never seen again. He disappeared, lost to the forest forever more.

And as for his wife, she appeared in the village one week later, unsure of how she’d gotten there or even where she’d come from. All she remembered was the cold touch of someone’s hand and the pale milky eyes of a stranger in the snow.