The Door That Knocks Back

The first night, it was just the wind.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

The old farmhouse had been in my family for three generations, and I’d always loved its stubborn quirks: the way the floorboards groaned like old men, the scent of cedar in the closets, the front porch that tilted just enough to spill your coffee if you weren’t paying attention.

But the back door was different. It was thick oak, stained nearly black from years of oil and weather. My grandfather had built it himself, carving a strange spiral pattern into the wood. I never asked why.

That night, the wind rattled the door against its frame. Not unusual. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I realized something—

It wasn’t random.

Three knocks. Pause. Three knocks. Pause. Three knocks.

The sound was precise, like someone keeping time with a metronome. I pressed my ear to the cold wood. The knocks stopped.

I waited, smiling nervously at my own imagination. Then, just as I pulled away—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I told myself it was a tree branch, or maybe an animal. I went to bed, ignoring the prickle at the base of my neck.

The second night, it returned.

This time, I turned on the porch light before opening the door. The wind swirled leaves across the steps. No footprints, no raccoons, no neighbor’s kids.

I closed the door, slid the bolt home. The moment the metal clicked, the knocking began again—harder, deliberate.

“Who’s there?” I asked, voice steady only because I forced it.

Nothing.

I put my palm against the door. It was warm.

On the third night, I decided not to answer.

I sat in the dark kitchen, only the faint hum of the fridge keeping me company. The knocks started right on schedule—three sharp raps, perfectly spaced.

But then, something new.

Between the knocks, I heard whispering. Not words exactly, but the rise and fall of a voice, like someone speaking through water.

I pressed my ear to the wood again. The whispering stopped. Then, a single knock. Soft. Close. As if from inside.

The fourth night, I called my sister.

“You’re staying in that house alone?” she asked.

“I’ve stayed here plenty of times.”

She hesitated. “You remember what Grandpa used to say about the back door?”

I laughed. “Something about never opening it after dark.”

Her silence stretched long enough for me to picture her chewing her thumbnail. “He meant it,” she said finally. “He told me once that the door wasn’t built to keep people out. It was to keep something in.”

The line went dead.

That night, the knocking began earlier.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. The knocking turned into pounding, shaking the frame. The spiral carving seemed deeper than before, the curves almost writhing in the dim light.

“Let me in.”

The voice was faint but unmistakable, a rasp that scraped along my spine.

I stood frozen, breath shallow.

“Please. Just open the door.”

It sounded almost human. Almost.

I gripped the handle. My hand shook—not from fear, but from the sudden, irrational urge to open it.

The fifth night, I nailed the door shut.

Six-inch iron nails, every few inches, hammering until my arms ached. I moved the heavy oak hutch in front of it for good measure.

I slept in the living room, away from the kitchen.

At 2:13 a.m., the nails squealed against the wood.

Something on the other side was pushing.

The hutch slid an inch. Then another.

The whispering began again, louder this time. I clamped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t matter—the voice was inside my head now, coaxing, promising.

You’ve already opened it once.

I woke at dawn on the floor, my nails dug into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The hutch was back in place. The door was still nailed shut.

But the spiral carving had changed.

Now it looked like an open eye.

I left the next morning. Packed the essentials, locked the front door, didn’t look back.

The house sits empty now, though the neighbors say they sometimes hear knocking from the kitchen at night.

Always in threes.

Always in perfect rhythm.

And sometimes, if the wind is just right, they swear the knocking comes from more than one side of the door.