THE KNOCK

It was a Tuesday night, the kind that folds in on itself, hushed and unremarkable. Rain had stopped just after dusk, leaving the world slick and smelling faintly of wet earth. Inside her small house at the edge of the woods, Clara sat curled in her armchair with a blanket pulled around her shoulders, a book open but forgotten on her lap. The stillness was almost too complete; even the old radiator had gone quiet.

Then came the knock.

It was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a blade. Three raps, not hurried, not timid. Clara’s head snapped up, her heart racing before she had even thought of why.

Nobody came out here. Not without calling first.

She sat frozen for a moment, listening. Rain ticked from the eaves. The house settled. The book slid silently to the floor.

The knock came again.

Clara forced herself to stand, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. She walked slowly to the door, every board of the floor creaking under her weight, every sound magnified in the stillness. She nervously peered through the peephole: nothing. Only the wet glint of the porch boards in the glow of the single dim lamp.

Her hand hovered on the knob. She should ignore it. She should—

And then she heard a voice. Soft, almost a whisper: “Please.”

She swallowed hard, cracked the door an inch.

A boy stood there. No more than twelve, maybe thirteen. His hair plastered wet against his forehead, his jacket too big and sagging with rain. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were wide with something that hovered close to panic.

“Can I come in?” he asked in a whisper.

Clara blinked. “Where are your parents?”

The boy shook his head, quick and firm, as though that wasn’t an option.

For one long breath, Clara hesitated. She wasn’t used to company. But something in the boy’s eyes—a quiet, urgent terror—tilted her decision. She unlatched the chain and pulled the door open wider.

“Alright. Just for a minute.”

He stepped inside, dripping water onto the mat. Clara closed the door, shut out the world, and turned back to him.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Emmet.”

“And where do you live, Emmet?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze darted to the windows, as if checking whether they were locked. Then back to her. “Do you believe in the woods?”

Clara’s chest tightened. “The woods?”

“The things in them.”

For a moment, she thought he was joking, or that maybe this was some strange neighborhood dare. But his face was pale and earnest.

“I saw something,” Emmet whispered. “And it saw me.”

Clara had lived beside the woods for seven years. They loomed just beyond her back fence, tall pines and crooked oaks, always whispering with wind. She had grown accustomed to their presence, though she rarely went in past the first few feet. They belonged to themselves.

She drew the boy toward the living room. “Sit down. You’re soaked. Let me get you a towel.”

While she fetched one, Emmet hovered near the chair but didn’t sit. When she returned, he flinched at the towel as though it was too bright, then accepted it reluctantly.

“What did you see?” Clara asked carefully.

He pressed the towel against his hair, mumbling through the fabric. “A shape. Tall. Wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to fit here.”

Clara’s skin prickled. She told herself this was just a child’s imagination, primed by shadows and the storm. But then—why the knocking at her door? Why the desperate eyes?

“Where exactly were you?” she asked.

“In the clearing with the rocks. I go there sometimes after dark. To think.” His voice cracked. “But tonight, it wasn’t empty. It was standing there. Like it was waiting for me.”

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but something outside interrupted.

A sound.

Not a knock this time. A scrape, long and low, along the siding of the house.

Emmet froze.

Clara felt the hair rise on her arms. “Raccoon,” she said quickly, though the word felt hollow.

“No,” Emmet whispered nervously. “It followed me.”

The scraping moved, deliberate, across the wall toward the back door. Clara’s pulse thudded. Every instinct screamed not to look, but she forced her legs to move. She crossed the kitchen, Emmet trailing close behind, and flicked on the porch light.

Through the glass pane of the door: nothing. Just slick boards, wet leaves stuck to the steps.

Still, the silence pressed.

Clara locked the deadbolt.

“Emmet,” she said slowly, “where do you live? I’ll call your parents to pick you up.”

He shook his head again, eyes wide. “Can’t. They won’t understand. Nobody does.”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

At that, he looked stricken. “No! Please. If they come, it’ll just make it worse.”

Clara frowned, torn between common sense and the unnerving certainty that he believed every word.

Another sound. This time, tapping on the window.

She spun. Across the room, the curtains swayed as if touched from the outside.

Clara’s breath caught. She grabbed the phone from the counter. No signal. Not unusual out here, but tonight it felt like a verdict.

Emmet clutched Clara’s sleeve. “We have to stay away from the windows. It looks in.”

She let him lead her back toward the center of the house, heart hammering.

Hours passed, or maybe only minutes; time seemed elastic in the thick hush. Clara had dragged a lamp closer, its circle of light a fragile anchor. Emmet sat on the rug, knees pulled tight, watching the shadows.

Every now and then came another sound: a creak on the porch, a scrape at the gutter, the faintest rustle against the glass.

Clara tried to keep her voice steady. “What does it want?”

Emmet swallowed. “To be seen.”

The words chilled her. “Why you?”

He shook his head. “Because I saw it first.”

The lamp flickered.

Clara’s breath hitched. “The power lines must be wet,” she muttered. But the lie was thin. The woods seemed to press closer, leaning against the walls, listening.

Emmet whispered, “It doesn’t like the light. That’s why it waits. That’s why it scratches.”

The lamp flickered again, then steadied. Clara gripped the edge of her chair until her knuckles whitened.

“Alright,” she said at last, surprising herself with the steadiness in her tone. “If it doesn’t like the light, then we’ll give it plenty.”

She rose, pulling drawers, finding candles, flashlights, anything with a flame or bulb. Emmet helped, his small hands trembling as he lit wicks and clicked switches. Soon the room glowed with scattered points of brightness, fragile but many.

The house held its breath.

And outside, silence.

Near dawn, exhaustion tugged at Clara’s eyelids. Emmet had curled beneath the blanket, finally asleep. The candles burned low. The first pale hint of morning edged through the curtains.

Clara dared to believe the night had passed. Whatever it was, maybe daylight would scatter it.

But then came one last sound.

Not a knock. Not a scrape.

A voice.

Her own.

“Clara. Open the door.”

Her chest froze. Emmet stirred, eyes flying open. “Don’t,” he whispered.

She couldn’t move anyway. The voice came again, calm and patient, the exact cadence of her own speech. “Clara. It’s alright now. Let me in.”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t answer. She didn’t breathe.

The voice waited. Then, slowly, it began to laugh. Low and broken, spilling into silence until even that faded.

And then—

Nothing.

The sun rose fully, spilling gold across the floor. Birds sang. The woods outside looked ordinary, just trees.

Clara sagged against the chair, trembling. Emmet sat silent beside her, his face pale but steady.

Finally, she asked, “What happens now?”

He looked toward the window, toward the endless dark lines of the trees. “Now,” he said, “we don’t open the door. Ever.”

Clara followed his gaze. For the first time in seven years, she felt the woods weren’t beside her house at all—they were watching it.

And she knew: whatever had come knocking last night would never leave.

But neither would she.

Because some doors, once left closed, must stay that way.