Near the Doorbell

The first time it happened, I thought it was a prank. The doorbell rang sharply, slicing through the stillness of the night. I shuffled to the door, half-asleep, expecting to see some neighborhood kids laughing and running off into the shadows. But when I opened it, there was no one there. Just the empty street, lit by the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp.

It happened again the next night. And the next. At exactly 2:33 AM, the doorbell would ring, its chime echoing through the silence. Each time, I found nothing but the cold night air greeting me.

By the fifth night, curiosity had replaced annoyance. Who could it be? And why 2:33 AM? Determined to catch the culprit, I decided to stay awake. Armed with a thermos of coffee and my old baseball bat, I planted myself near the door, keeping a wary eye on the clock.

At 2:25 AM, my nerves started to get the better of me. The house seemed to hold its breath, the ticking of the clock growing louder with each passing second. At 2:33 AM, the doorbell rang. My heart leaped into my throat. I gripped the bat tightly, flung the door open, and… nothing. Just the same empty street.

This time, though, I noticed something different. The faint scent of cigarettes lingered in the air. I didn’t smoke, and none of my neighbors did either—not that I’d ever seen, anyway. The mystery deepened.

By the tenth night, I’d had enough. I set up a small stool by the door and waited. The clock ticked closer to 2:33 AM. The anticipation was maddening. I tried to distract myself by scrolling through my phone, but my hands were shaking too much to focus. At 2:33 AM, the doorbell rang.

I swung the door open immediately, expecting to see a shadow darting away. But there was no one there. Just the same eerie silence and the faint smell of smoke. My patience snapped. I grabbed a cigarette from the emergency pack I kept for guests, lit it, and took a drag. The smoke swirled in the cold night air, curling toward the doorbell like it had a mind of its own.

That’s when I saw it.

At first, it was just a distortion in the smoke, like heatwaves rising off asphalt on a hot day. But as I stared, the distortion took shape. A figure—vague, translucent—stood near the doorbell. My breath caught in my throat. It was staring directly at me.

It was a woman, or at least, what was left of one. Her face was pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken and hollow. Her hair hung in stringy clumps around her shoulders. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there, staring.

I dropped the cigarette, my hand trembling. “Who are you?” I managed to croak out.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she raised a hand and pointed toward the doorbell. Her fingers were long and thin, almost skeletal. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone, the smoke dissipating into the night.

I slammed the door shut and locked it, my heart pounding in my chest. Sleep was out of the question. I spent the rest of the night sitting in the living room, the bat clutched tightly in my hands.

The next morning, I examined the doorbell. It looked perfectly normal, but as I ran my fingers over it, I noticed a faint inscription etched into the metal. The letters were tiny, almost imperceptible. Squinting, I could just make out the words: “Eternal Vigil.”

The phrase sent a shiver down my spine. I had no idea what it meant, but it felt ominous. I tried to brush it off, convincing myself it was just a coincidence. But deep down, I knew better.

That night, the doorbell rang again. This time, I didn’t open the door. I stayed in bed, clutching the covers like a child afraid of the dark. But I couldn’t ignore the sound. It was louder than ever, more insistent. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw on a jacket and stepped outside, determined to confront whatever—or whoever—was tormenting me.

The street was empty, just as it had been every other night. But as I turned to go back inside, I saw her again. She was standing a few feet away, her hollow eyes fixed on me. This time, she spoke.

“He’s waiting,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy, like dry leaves scraping against each other.

“Who?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“The man you wronged,” she said. Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Memories I’d buried long ago came rushing back. The accident. The man I’d hit with my car. The man I’d left for dead.

“It was an accident,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to…”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “He’s waiting,” she repeated, and then she was gone.

The doorbell didn’t ring again after that night. But I knew better than to think it was over. The woman’s words haunted me, echoing in my mind every time I closed my eyes. “He’s waiting.”

I started seeing him in my dreams. A shadowy figure standing by the side of the road, his face obscured but his presence unmistakable. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stood there, waiting.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove back to the spot where the accident had happened, hoping to find some kind of closure. The road was deserted, just as it had been that night. I parked the car and got out, my heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the darkness. “I didn’t mean to leave you. I was scared.”

The air grew colder, and for a moment, I thought I saw the figure standing in the distance. But when I blinked, it was gone. The weight on my chest lifted, just slightly. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something.

I haven’t heard the doorbell since. But every night, at 2:33 AM, I wake up, heart racing, and listen. Just in case.