The Knock at 2 A.M.

I don’t usually wake up at 2 A.M. I am the kind of person who sleeps like a rock. But that night, something pulled me out of my dreams—like a string yanking me awake.

The room was silent, except for the faint tick-tick of the clock on my wall. I rubbed my eyes, still half asleep, when I heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three slow taps on the front door.

At first, I thought maybe I had dreamed it. But then it came again, harder this time.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A chill crawled down my spine. Who could it be at this hour? I live alone. My street is quiet, and nobody ever visits me that late. My first thought was maybe a neighbor in trouble, or maybe—worse—a break-in.

I didn’t move right away. I just sat frozen on my bed, listening. The knocking stopped. For a moment, I thought it was over. But then—

Creeeeeak.

The sound of the door slowly opening.

That made no sense. I always lock my door at night. Always. I rushed out of bed, barefoot, my heart hammering. The hallway stretched ahead of me, dark except for the pale glow of the moon spilling through the window.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaking.

No answer.

I grabbed the baseball bat I keep near the kitchen and stepped carefully toward the front door. It stood wide open now, the night air blowing inside.

But the street was empty. No car, no person, not even footsteps in the snow.

I shut the door quickly, bolted it, and told myself maybe I had just been dreaming. Maybe I forgot to lock it before bed. Maybe the wind had knocked it open.

I wanted to believe that. I really did.

But then I turned around.

Someone was standing in the living room.

A man. Tall, too tall. His face was hidden in the shadows, but I could see his eyes—they glowed faintly, like an animal’s caught in headlights.

I dropped the bat. My throat went dry. “Who are you?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slowly, like he was studying me, like a curious child watching an insect crawl across the floor.

I stumbled back. My legs felt weak. I thought about running out the door, but something in me knew—I wouldn’t make it.

And then he spoke.

But the voice wasn’t his.

It was my mother’s.

“Why did you let me in?”

I froze. My mother died three years ago. I buried her myself. And yet, the voice was hers—soft, familiar, full of warmth and sadness.

“You left me alone,” the thing said, stepping closer. “But I never left you.”

I shook my head. “You’re not her,” I said. My voice cracked. “You can’t be.”

The figure smiled, and in the dim light, his face shifted. For a moment, I saw her—my mother’s face, exactly as I remembered it, pale and tired in her final days.

“Don’t you miss me?” it whispered. “Don’t you wish I could come back?”

Tears burned in my eyes. I did miss her. Every single day. But I knew this wasn’t her. This was something else. Something wearing her like a mask.

“Leave me alone,” I said firmly, even though my voice shook.

The figure tilted its head again, and the smile widened unnaturally, stretching too far.

Then, without another word, it walked backward into the dark corner of the room. I blinked—just once—and it was gone.

The air felt lighter, like a storm had passed. My knees gave out, and I sat on the floor, trembling.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. When the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, I finally got up.

The door was locked again. No sign of it ever opening. No footprints. Nothing.

But I know what I saw.

And every night since, I wake up at 2 A.M.

Not to knocking.

But to the sound of my mother’s voice, whispering my name from the empty living room.