The Knock At The Door

The Knock At The Door

It was late. The house had gone still. Only the hum of the fridge, the slow tick of the clock in the hall, and the whisper of her own breathing. Then came the knock. Hard. Sharp. Like a hammer against her skull.

She froze, her heart jumping. The blanket slid from her lap as she rose, each step heavy, her pulse hammering in her ears. The knock came again, more insistent this time, rattling the old wooden frame of the door.

She pressed her palm against the cold handle, hesitating. This was no polite knock. This was a demand. When she opened it, he stood there. A man with hollow eyes and skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones. His hair was cropped, his clothes loose and grimy. A smell of sweat and smoke hit her like a slap.

You know who I am, he said, his voice low, calm, and terrifying in its certainty.

She shook her head. His lips twitched. He gave a name. A name from old stories, whispered in the past, one she had tried to forget. He said he had been in prison. That her husband had been his partner. That they had robbed a bank together. That the money, buried long ago, was still out there.

Her husband has been dead for three years. You’re lying, she whispered, though her voice sounded weak and trembling.He leaned closer, eyes fixed on hers like burning coals. Lying? No. He fooled you. He fooled everyone. I waited ten years. Ten years rotting behind bars while he walked free. He promised me half. I want my half.

She shook her head, stepping back. Her bare foot hit the floor with a soft thump. He followed, booted feet leaving dark prints on the wood. The house seemed to shrink around her, the walls leaning in, trapping her. You know where it is, he hissed. I don’t know anything, she cried, her voice breaking.

Don’t lie to me, he snapped, his voice sharp, cold, dangerous. You know where it is. Tell me now. His eyes widened, rage flaring.

You think I came all this way for nothing? His eyes gleamed with madness. I did my time. Ten years. I dreamed of this night. He promised me half and I’ll take it, even if I have to tear it from you.

She pressed her palms against his chest, trying to push, but his strength was iron. He laughed then, a cruel, ragged sound. He leaned in, close enough for her to see the lines in his face, the hate etched there, and she felt every heartbeat of his fury slam into her own chest.

The room seemed to shrink further. Shadows pooled in the corners. The old floorboards groaned beneath their feet. She could smell the faint dust of the walls, hear the faint whistle of air through the cracks, and feel her own pulse thudding in her ears, louder than the ticking clock.

His hands rose, cold and fast, closing around her throat. She clawed, kicked, tried to scream, but nothing came. Spots of light danced at the edges of her vision. The world tilted. The walls pressed closer. The air grew heavy, almost solid, and the pounding of her heart became a drum of terror.

Then, as the darkness crept into her mind, she gasped awake. The ceiling loomed above her, calm and quiet. The clock ticked, soft, steady. The fridge hummed like nothing had happened. Beside her, the bed was warm. Her husband lay there, breathing slow and even. He opened one eye. What’s wrong?

I had a bad dream, she whispered. She pressed close, letting his warmth steady her racing heart. Her hands clutched the blanket. No more cheese at bedtimes, he said, as he nodded off again.