Every Night at 3:07 AM, My Doorbell Rings. No One’s Ever There.

I checked the cameras. What I saw made my blood run cold.

I moved into this house three months ago, chasing what people like to call a “fresh start.” A new job in a quieter town, a modest two-bedroom house with a creaky porch and a view of nothing but thick, endless woods behind it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

For the first few weeks, life was simple. I unpacked boxes, learned which floorboards groaned the loudest, and let the silence settle in like a heavy blanket. No neighbors stopping by, no friendly small talk. Just me, my overworked coffee maker, and the hum of old pipes in the walls.

Then, on a Wednesday night, it started.

At **3:07 AM**, the sharp, high-pitched chime of my doorbell shattered the quiet.

I jolted upright in bed, heart pounding against my ribs. I wasn’t expecting anyone — no one even knew me here. It must’ve been a mistake. A drunk kid? A late package? I waited, listening, but heard nothing else. No footsteps. No knock.

Too tired to investigate, I told myself it was nothing and rolled over.

The next night, the bell rang again.
**3:07 AM. Exactly.**

This time, curiosity won over hesitation. I grabbed my phone, opening the feed from my new video doorbell — one of those motion-activated smart cameras I’d installed the day I moved in, mostly for peace of mind.

But the feed showed nothing. The porch was empty. No person, no animal. Just the faint flicker of the porch light, swaying branches in the distance, and the time stamp: **3:07 AM**.

I chalked it up to a glitch.

On the third night, I was ready.

I stayed up, huddled under a blanket on the couch with my phone open to the live feed. **3:05 AM. 3:06 AM.** I held my breath.

Then —
**DING DONG.**

I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. The live feed refreshed… and there it was.

A figure.

Just barely visible at the very edge of the porch, standing in the darkness beyond the light’s reach. Tall, thin, unnervingly still. I couldn’t make out a face or details, just the unmistakable outline of a person.

I scrambled to the window, pulling the curtain aside — no one.

Back to the phone. The feed was empty again.

I didn’t sleep after that.

---

The next morning, bleary-eyed and jittery from too much coffee, I called the police. An officer came by, a guy named Jensen. I explained everything. He glanced at my porch, checked the doorbell logs, and shrugged.

“Could be some kid messing with you,” he offered. “Or an animal triggering the motion sensor.”

I showed him the clip, though the figure barely showed up on the saved footage. The poor quality made it look more like a smudge of darkness than a person. Still, I saw it. I knew what I saw.

“We’ll patrol by tonight,” Jensen promised, scribbling something in a notebook before leaving.

---

That night, I left every light on. Sat clutching a baseball bat, refreshing the camera feed every five minutes.

**3:07 AM. DING DONG.**

I felt the blood drain from my face.

I forced myself to look at the feed. This time, the figure was closer. Standing just beneath the porch light, though the camera still refused to capture anything clearly. Like it was bending the shadows around it.

The way it stood — too still, too quiet — set every instinct screaming. And then it moved. A slow tilt of the head, as if it knew I was watching.

And that’s when it happened.

It raised a hand… and waved.

A slow, deliberate wave.

I let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream, bolted upstairs, and locked myself in my room. I didn’t check the footage again until dawn.

When I finally did, the saved clip was gone.

No event logged at 3:07 AM. No figure. No wave. Nothing.

---

By the fifth night, I was a wreck. Dark circles under my eyes, nerves frayed to the point where every creak and groan made me jump. I called the police again. Jensen came by, but there was nothing to report. No evidence. No prints. No saved footage.

“Maybe it’s time to get some rest,” he said carefully, eyeing the growing mess of empty coffee cups and takeout containers.

I wanted to leave. Sell the house. Burn it down, maybe. But something — call it stubbornness or sheer terror — kept me here.

That night, at **3:07 AM**, the doorbell rang one final time.

I didn’t check the camera. Didn’t peek through the blinds. I just sat there in the dark, staring at my phone, waiting for it to end.

After a long, suffocating minute, a soft knock followed.

Three precise raps against the door.

And then… a voice.

A woman’s voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Let me in.”

I swear my heart stopped.

Because it sounded like her.

**Lena.**

My best friend.

The one who disappeared seven years ago without a trace.

The one whose voice I hadn’t heard since the night she vanished.

I wanted to believe it was a trick. A cruel, impossible prank.

But something inside me — a memory, a buried instinct — knew it wasn’t.

I managed to crawl to the door, every part of me screaming not to. I pressed my ear against the cold wood.

“Please,” the voice whispered. “I’m so cold.”

I reached for the doorknob.

Paused.

And then turned away.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the window.

The porch was empty.

No sign of anyone. No footprints. No evidence.

I moved out the same day.

---

I never found out who — or what — was ringing my doorbell at 3:07 AM. I never heard Lena’s voice again.

But sometimes, in the dead quiet of early morning, I still wake up at exactly **3:07 AM**.

And I swear, for just a second, I hear the doorbell chime.