A knock in the dark

The first knock came just after midnight. Three slow, deliberate taps on the front door of the farmhouse. Not frantic, not hesitant just… patient.

Manva jolted awake in the upstairs bedroom trembling of mysterious fear. The old house moaned softly with the wind outside as it often did but this time it was strangely different.

She sat still in the dark, straining her ears. Silence followed. No footsteps, no voices. Just the creaking of timber and the quiet rasp of leaves brushing the windows.

She rose from bed, slipped on her robe and grabbed the heavy iron candle-holder from the nightstand. The match hissed as she lit the wick, and the flame cast trembling shadows on the yellowed wallpaper. The house was old—older than the trees that bent around it and had stood alone for years before she inherited it from a great-aunt she’d never met.

She crept down the stairs; each step groaning beneath her feet. As she reached the bottom landing, the air shifted—subtle but undeniable. The cold deepened. The house felt… alert.

Manva paused at the front door. Her fingers hovered near the handle.

Another knock.

She flinched. But it hadn’t come from the door in front of her.

It had come from the back.

She turned slowly. The hallway leading to the kitchen stretched into dimness, the flame in her hand quivering with each step. She passed the dusty portrait of her great-aunt Eleanor, whose eyes always seemed too alive, too knowing. At the far end, beyond the cracked pantry and crooked coat rack, was the back door.

She reached it. Waited.

Nothing.

She opened it cautiously.

The night was empty. The tall grass swayed gently under the bruised moon, and the woods beyond the field murmured in their sleep. No footprints; no sign of anyone.

She closed the door, heart still racing. The moment she turned—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, from inside the house.

She spun around, candle lifted high. The knock had come from beneath her—under the floorboards.

Manva backed away slowly, her breath caught in her throat. That’s when she noticed the mirror at the end of the hallway.

There was someone in it.

Her reflection stood where it should, but it wasn’t right. The figure in the mirror was pale and gaunt, eyes wide and sunken. Its lips moved slowly, silently, mouthing words she couldn’t hear. Then it lifted one trembling hand and pointed—downward.

Manva looked at the floor.

A dark stain had begun to spread between the boards. It looked like water at first, but too thick, too dark. It pulsed gently, as if alive.

Then the voices started.

Soft whispers from the walls, like the house was breathing memories. "Please," they murmured, "help us… forgotten… left below…"

The mirror cracked.

Manva cried out and stumbled back. The candle fell, extinguishing in the black liquid pooling at her feet. Complete darkness swallowed the hall.

Another knock.

Louder this time; more urgent.

She fled up the stairs, fumbling for the spare flashlight in the drawer by her bed. It flickered to life, casting a harsh beam across the walls.

Then she saw them.

Handprints.

Dozens of them; stained into the wallpaper. Some small like children’s, others long-fingered and twisted. All reaching upward.

A low thud came from beneath her bed.

Trembling, she knelt and lifted the edge of the coverlet.

A face stared back at her.

Gaunt, weeping. Its mouth worked soundlessly, but she could feel its desperation—its hunger for light, for breath, for memory. Before she could scream, it vanished—sucked back into the darkness like smoke.

She bolted for the door. But it wouldn’t open. The knob turned, but something held it fast. From all around, the knocks came again, louder now, faster—walls, ceiling, underfoot. As though the entire house was filled with fists, begging to be let out.

Or let in.

The final thing she saw was her reflection in the hallway mirror—no longer her own, but that same weeping figure, smiling now, as if grateful.

They found the farmhouse empty. Manva was gone without a trace. But the floorboards were warped and stained with something no one could explain, and the mirrors had all shattered from the inside.

They say if you pass the house at night, sometimes you’ll hear knocking. Steady. Patient.

Some say it’s Manva, trying to get out.

Others believe it was never her house at all.

It belonged to the helpless ones—the ones left in the dark.