Don’t Open the Door

I’ve always thought living alone was freedom. No arguments about dishes, no noise I didn’t choose, no one asking why I was awake at three in the morning. Just me, my books, and the quiet.

But silence is tricky. Sometimes it comforts you. Sometimes it presses down so hard you swear you can hear it breathing.

That night started like any other. I made tea, turned off the TV, and stretched out on my couch with a book. The clock on the wall read just past midnight. My apartment was calm, the kind of stillness that feels almost safe.

Then I heard it.

Three slow knocks at my front door.

I froze, mug halfway to my lips.

Nobody visits me this late. Nobody should even be in this building’s hallway at midnight. I live on the top floor. The neighbors mind their own business. My first thought was maybe someone drunk had stumbled onto the wrong door.

I tiptoed to the peephole.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty. Just a flickering lightbulb above and the hum of the old building’s pipes.

My heart pounded hard enough to hurt. I checked the locks, even slid the chain across. Then I stepped back, telling myself to ignore it.

But then it came again.

Three knocks.

Same rhythm. Same weight.

I leaned forward, pressing my ear against the wood. I swear the sound wasn’t coming from the other side anymore. It was softer, as if the knock was inside the walls.

My stomach twisted. I backed away, slowly, like distance would protect me.

The silence dragged on until I almost convinced myself it was nothing. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just the radiator.

And then it happened.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

From the bedroom door.

I can’t explain the terror that ripped through me. The bedroom was empty. I’d locked the front door, the windows were shut, and I live alone. There’s no way anyone could be in there.

Yet the sound was real. A deliberate rhythm, waiting for me.

I couldn’t move at first. Every muscle locked, my skin buzzing with pins and needles. Then, clear as day, I heard a voice.

A whisper.

It stretched out my name, slow and careful, like it was savoring it.

I stumbled back into the living room, eyes locked on the bedroom door. The whisper stopped. The knock started again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I grabbed my phone, desperate to call someone—anyone. The screen was black. Dead battery. The charger? In the bedroom. Of course.

I tried to convince myself to be brave, to fling the door open and prove it was nothing. But another part of me screamed louder: Don’t open the door.

I don’t know if it was instinct or fear or something else, but I knew—whatever was in there, it wanted me to answer.

And I couldn’t.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I ran.

I snatched my keys, pulled on my coat, and bolted out the front door. My footsteps pounded down the stairs so loud I thought the whole building would wake. I didn’t look back. Not once.

The night air hit me like ice, but it was a relief. Real. Solid. I ran two blocks to the all-night diner, pushed through the door, and collapsed in a booth. The waitress gave me a look but didn’t ask. I sat there until the sky started to lighten, clutching a cup of coffee I never drank.

When the sun finally rose, I forced myself back.

The hallway looked normal. My door was still locked. Inside, everything was just as I’d left it.

Except for one thing.

The bedroom door stood wide open.

And carved into the wood, deep enough to splinter the frame, were three words:

WELCOME HOME.