A Knocked At The Midnight

It began with three knocks that didn’t belong.

Not hurried, not fearful—just steady, like someone certain of their right to be there.

I wasn’t expecting anyone at midnight, least of all in a house this far from the road. The woods around my cabin muffled most sounds, but those knocks sliced through the stillness as though the trees themselves carried them to my ear.

I froze, listening.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The second round seemed louder, though maybe that was just the silence inside me stretching thin. I told myself not to answer—anyone decent would have called ahead, and anyone indecent… well, a locked door wouldn’t stop them.

Still, I rose from the couch, moving quietly across the floorboards. The porch light had died weeks ago, leaving the entry shrouded in shadow. I pressed an eye to the peephole. Nothing. Just darkness thick enough to stare back.

“Who’s there?” My voice cracked in the hush.

Silence.

I waited another heartbeat before unlatching the chain and opening the door just wide enough to see. Cold night air spilled inside. The porch was empty—no visitor, no car, no trace of anything human.

Except the box.

It sat neatly on the doormat, square and wooden, polished like something you’d find in an antique shop. No markings. No address. No note.

My stomach tightened. Packages don’t deliver themselves.

I crouched, hesitating, then touched the lid. The wood was warm, as if it had been held by living hands only moments ago.

That’s when I heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound came from inside the box.

I stumbled back, nearly slamming the door shut, but the box stayed still, small and patient. The knocks had been soft, almost polite, like the echo of tiny fingers.

Logic warred with fear. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe an animal was trapped inside. My hands trembled as I lifted it—lighter than I expected, though something shifted within.

Against every better instinct, I carried it inside.

On the kitchen table, under the yellow glow of the lamp, the box looked almost harmless. My breath fogged the air as I unlatched the clasp.

The lid creaked open.

Inside lay a folded piece of parchment, browned at the edges. No creature. No tricks. Just paper.

I unfolded it with clumsy fingers. The handwriting was sharp, ink black and deliberate:

“You knocked once. Now it answers.”

Before I could process the words, the lights flickered. The house groaned as if some weight pressed against its beams. And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

But this time, it wasn’t at the door.

It came from the walls.

Everywhere at once.

All around me.

The box sat open, empty now, humming faintly with a sound I couldn’t place. Like breath caught between laughter and weeping.

I stood frozen, parchment in one hand, my other reaching toward the switchblade I kept in the drawer.

Then the final knock came—right behind me.

I turned.

The room was empty. But the air felt heavier, as if someone had just stepped aside, just out of sight.

“Hello?” My voice trembled. I hated the way it sounded, thin and uncertain.

A whisper followed. Not words—more like the faint suggestion of them, slipping just beyond comprehension. The sound slid across the walls, circling, until it seemed the entire cabin was breathing with me.

I looked down. The parchment had changed. New words inked themselves across the page, curling letter by curling letter:

“Choose. Open or close.”

The box rattled once, then went still again.

My pulse hammered in my ears. Part of me wanted to run outside, leave it, let the woods swallow whatever curse I’d dragged into my home. But another part—the same stubborn curiosity that made me open it in the first place—kept me anchored.

“Open or close,” I whispered.

The whisper in the walls surged louder, almost eager, like it had been waiting for me to speak.

I stared at the box. My thumb brushed the clasp, and I felt warmth pulse beneath my skin, a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Open.”

The lid swung wide.

This time, there was no paper. No riddle. Just darkness inside, impossibly deep. I leaned closer, and the air pouring from it was cold enough to burn. My reflection in the glossy wood shimmered—and then shifted.

Not me.

Not quite.

It was my face, but older. Hollow-eyed, lips pressed in a grim line, as though carved from grief. The figure raised its hand, and though it was only a reflection, the sound of knuckles against wood filled the cabin.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I staggered back. The darkness stretched, spilling upward, pulling my reflection free. It stepped from the box, skin pale as parchment, eyes sunken voids.

It smiled. My smile.

And then it spoke in my voice.

“You knocked first.”

The lamp burst, plunging the cabin into blackness.

The last thing I saw was the figure walking toward me, calm, steady, as if it had always belonged here.

The box sat open behind it, waiting.