Don't Answer the Third Knock

Don't Answer the Third Knock

It started with a whisper.

Emily had just moved into the old cabin nestled deep in the Appalachian woods, far away from the digital noise of city life. The locals were friendly enough—gruff, but warm. They offered her mason jars full of moonshine and warm warnings laced with Southern charm.

“Nice place,” one old man said, “but if you hear three knocks on your door at night—don’t answer the third one.”

She’d laughed it off. Folklore, she figured. Every small town had its ghost stories.

The first night passed quietly. Crickets chirped like a lullaby, and the wind rustled the trees like nature breathing. It wasn’t until the third night that she heard it.

Knock.

She sat upright in bed. 12:17 a.m. The knock was soft, like the tap of fingers against the wood.

She waited.

Knock.

Her breath caught. Slipping out from under the blankets, she padded barefoot to the door. The porch light flickered like it was nervous too. She placed her eye to the peephole.

Nothing. Just dark woods and thick silence.

She turned the lock. A whisper echoed in her ear—don’t answer the third knock. She froze, heart hammering.

No third knock came. Not that night.

The next day, she asked the grocer about it. He paled.

“You heard it?” he asked, glancing at the others in the store. “Don’t joke about that. It chooses people.”

Emily smiled, trying to play along. “What happens if someone answers the third knock?”

The grocer just looked at her, then made the sign of the cross.

That night, the knocks came again.

Knock.

Emily was already awake, clutching the covers to her chin. 12:17 a.m. on the dot again.

Knock.

She didn’t move this time. Not toward the door, not even to breathe too loudly.

The air grew thick, like something was waiting. But again, no third knock.

By the fifth night, she was unraveling. Sleep-deprived, jumpy, her nerves flinched at every creak. And still—every night—the same two knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Until the seventh night.

That night, it was raining. Thunder boomed in the distance, lightning cracked the sky open.

And the knock came.

Knock.

Emily clutched the pendant her grandmother had given her. She whispered prayers she barely remembered from childhood.

Knock.

She squeezed her eyes shut, teeth chattering. She could hear something breathing just outside the door, slow and rasping.

Knock.

The third knock.

It was heavier than the first two. It made the floor tremble. She jumped up, heart racing, pulled by a strange, irresistible urge.

She had to open the door.

“No,” she hissed to herself, gripping the handle. Her hand betrayed her, twitching, turning the lock with a mechanical smoothness.

She fought it. “No, no, no—”

But the door opened anyway.

The thing standing there wasn’t human.

It had a face—almost. Eyes too wide and too empty, a mouth like a gash that smiled without lips. Its body was tall and thin, clothed in wet darkness.

“Thank you,” it whispered, voice dry and papery. “You opened the door.”

Emily screamed, slamming it shut. But it was too late.

The creature was inside.

She ran. Through the kitchen, past the antique rocking chair, toward the basement stairs. She barely had time to close the heavy door behind her when she heard it enter the house—creaking, like the bones of the world were breaking.

In the dark, she fumbled for a flashlight. Her hands shook so badly she dropped it.

Then she heard it.

Knock.

Not at the front door. This time it came from the basement door.

Knock.

Closer.

She backed away until her spine hit cold stone.

Knock.

The third one.

It didn’t need an invitation anymore.

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In the morning, the locals found her cabin empty. No sign of a struggle, just a single handprint burned into the wood of the front door.

They didn't ask questions. They just nailed the door shut, left a single warning carved into the frame.

DON’T ANSWER THE THIRD KNOCK.