Someone Outside

I don't tell this story often. Not because I’ve forgotten it—I couldn’t, even if I wanted to—but because every time I do, I see that same look in people’s eyes. Pity, maybe. Or disbelief. Like I’m unstable. Like maybe I imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t. God help me, I didn’t.

This happened in the fall of 2017. I’d just moved back to my childhood home in rural Pennsylvania after my dad passed. The house sat at the edge of a thick forest, miles from the nearest neighbor. As a kid, I was always warned to stay out of the woods after dark. My dad had all kinds of stories—local legends, he said—about people who went missing out there. But as an adult, I chalked it up to small-town superstition.

I moved in alone. No wife, no kids. Just me and that quiet house surrounded by acres of woods that were always too still for my liking. Even during the day, the trees seemed to lean in a little too close to the windows. The house groaned a lot too—old wood, old pipes—but at night, those groans started sounding like footsteps.

It started small. Footprints in the dirt by the back door. I thought maybe a stray dog. Then I found my garden gate open. I never used that gate. It had rusted halfway shut. But one morning, there it was—wide open. Like someone had forced it.

Still, I told myself it was wind, or maybe some kids messing around.

Then came the knocking.

The first time was just after midnight. Three slow, heavy knocks on the front door. I froze. It wasn’t the kind of knock you get from a neighbor or delivery guy. It was deliberate. Like whoever it was knew I’d be listening.

I waited. Didn’t move. After a minute or two, I finally peeked out the front window—but there was no one there. Just the trees and the fog rolling in low.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next evening, I made sure all the doors were locked, every window latched tight. I even propped a chair under the front doorknob like they do in the movies.

And yet, at exactly 12:03 AM, the knocking came again. This time at the back door.

Three knocks. Just like before.

I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed and crept toward the kitchen. I didn’t open the door. I didn’t even get close. But I did flick on the porch light.

There was no one there.

The next morning, I checked the backyard. Muddy prints led from the woods straight to the back steps. No prints going back. Just coming in.

That was the first time I called the police.

The officer was polite, young. Looked maybe twenty-two. Said he’d do a sweep, but nothing turned up. No signs of forced entry. No one in the area matching any suspicious behavior. He told me it was probably some drifter. Said to keep the lights on and maybe get a trail cam if I was worried.

So I did. I bought two. Set one facing the back porch, one aimed at the tree line.

That night, I didn’t hear any knocking.

The next morning, I checked the footage.

At 12:03 AM on both cameras, the feeds cut out. Just static. They stayed that way for exactly three minutes. Then the picture came back. But something had changed.

On the back porch cam, there was a smear on the lens. Not just dirt. It looked like something had pressed against it. Like a face.

The trail cam... that one was worse.

It showed a figure standing just inside the trees. Not moving. Not approaching. Just watching. Even now, I can’t describe it clearly. It looked wrong. Too tall, too thin. The proportions didn’t make sense. And its eyes—or what I think were eyes—reflected the infrared like animal eyes. But this was no animal.

I took the SD cards straight to the police.

They didn’t laugh. They didn’t say much of anything. Just took notes and told me to call again if anything else happened.

That night, the knocking didn’t come.

But something else did.

Around 1:30 AM, I heard movement upstairs. I live alone, remember. I don’t even go up there. The upstairs is just dusty bedrooms and old boxes.

But I heard it.

Footsteps. Slow, careful. Like someone trying not to be heard.

I didn’t go up. I just sat in the living room, lights on, clutching that bat until the sun came up.

When I finally got the nerve to check, there was nothing. But one of the bedroom windows was open. Just a crack. And the screen was gone.

I should have left. I know that now. But when you’re in it—when it’s your house, your reality—it’s hard to accept that something unnatural might be happening.

I stayed one more night.

That was the worst one.

I had every light on. TV playing. Phone charged. I even had a friend on speakerphone for a while, but he fell asleep on his end. I remember staring at the clock. 12:01... 12:02...

12:03.

But this time, no knock.

Instead, I heard whispering.

From the walls.

It didn’t sound like one voice. It sounded like many. All overlapping. Male, female, young, old. Saying things I couldn’t understand. Some were laughing. One was crying.

Then, the lights went out.

Not just the house—everything. No moon. No stars. Even my phone screen stayed black when I pressed it.

And then, through the window... I saw it.

Something was standing just beyond the glass. Not a person. I won’t say that again. It was tall, yes, but it bent wrong, like it didn’t have bones where it should. It was smiling, I think. But the smile was too wide.

It raised one long finger and tapped the window once.

That tap was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

When the lights came back on, it was gone. And I was already halfway to my truck.

I left that night. Drove straight to a motel two towns over and never looked back.

I sold the house cheap. Didn’t care. Didn’t go back for anything. Not the pictures, not my dad’s stuff—nothing.

Sometimes, I still dream about it. The knocking. The whispers. The thing outside.

And sometimes, I wake up and swear I hear tapping at the window.

Just one.

Single.

Tap.