The Knocking

**The Knocking**

It started with a soft knock.

At first, she had thought it was the house settling—an old, creaking house out on the outskirts of town. The kind of house where shadows stretched too far and the floor groaned beneath secret weight. She had inherited it from her grandmother, a woman who died whispering warnings that no one heard.

The second night, there was the knocking again. Three short, hard knocks. Ellie, huddled under a blanket on the couch, turned down the TV. It had sounded like it was at the front door. She peered through the peephole. Nothing.

She sighed, shook her head, and returned to her movie.

By the third night, the knocking had changed. It was delivered in pairs now—*knock, knock, pause, knock, knock*—as if the person on the other side was holding their breath, anticipating something.

Ellie did not look this time. She locked the door, turned off the lights, and got into bed, staring at the ceiling.

**Knock, knock, pause, knock, knock.**

It was nearer.

Her stomach churned. The sound hadn't come from the door today. It had come from the *inside* of the house.

Ellie perched forward. The hall was in darkness, but the sound came from there. She fumbled for her phone, cold hands.

The air felt thick and oppressive. She wanted to call someone, but what would she say? *Hey, there’s knocking inside my house. I’m scared.* That sounded insane.

Instead, she turned on her bedside lamp. The soft glow pushed against the darkness, but the hallway remained a black void.

She made herself stand. She was being absurd. Perhaps it was the pipes or a limb against a window.

She moved forward into the hallway. Another step. The floor groaned under her weight.

And then—

**Knock knock.**

Right next to her.

Ellie screamed, backing up. The knocking was on the wall of the bedroom, inches from where she stood.

Something was inside the walls.

She scrambled for her phone, dialing 911 with shaking fingers.

A voice answered, calm, almost too calm. “911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s… there’s something in my house,” she whispered.

“Are you alone, ma’am?”

Ellie hesitated. Was she?

“I—I think so.”

“Stay on the line,” the operator said. “Help is on the way.”

Ellie backed into the farthest corner of the room, watching the wall, waiting. The knocking had stopped.

Minutes dragged by. Then—

A knock at the front door.

Ellie’s breath hitched.

**Knock, knock, pause, knock, knock.**

“Ma’am?” the voice on the phone asked.

Ellie held the phone tighter. “I think the police are here.”

“They’re not.”

Her blood went cold.

"Do *not* open the door," the operator advised, her voice now sharp with alarm. "Stay where you are."

Ellie held her phone, her eyes on the door. Then—

**Knock knock.**

Right behind her.

She spun around, her heart racing. The closet door.

She wasn't alone.

The line went dead.

There was silence.

Then the closet creaked open.

And the knocking. never ceased.

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