The Knocking

The Knocking

It started with a knock.

Not the kind that comes with a visitor or a delivery—no, this one was different. It was soft. Deliberate. Like fingers tapping gently on wood with the weight of knowing it would be heard.

Ava had just moved into her new apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian building in a sleepy town she barely remembered choosing. It was cheap, which meant something was wrong with it. She just didn’t know what yet.

It was the third night when the knocking began.

2:13 a.m.

She sat upright in bed, breath held. The sound came from her front door. Four knocks. Slow. Steady. Then silence.

She waited.

Nothing.

Chalking it up to a dream—or maybe the old pipes—she went back to sleep.

The next night, it returned.

2:13 a.m. sharp.

Four knocks again. But this time, Ava got up and approached the door. She peeked through the peephole.

No one.

She opened the door.

Empty hallway. Still. Silent. Cold.

She closed it slowly, her skin crawling. As she turned to walk back to her room, she noticed something on the floor just inside the door.

A single black feather.

She didn’t own anything with feathers.

By the fifth night, Ava hadn’t slept properly. The knocking continued. Always at 2:13. Always four soft raps. Always followed by a feather, darker than ink, left just inside the door.

She told the landlord. He just shrugged. “These buildings are old. Wood expands. Might be mice.”

“Mice don’t knock,” she snapped.

He chuckled. “Maybe they’re polite mice.”

She didn’t laugh.

Desperate, Ava taped a note to her door:

“Please stop knocking. You’re scaring me.”

That night, the knocking came again. Same time. Same rhythm.

But when she opened the door—heart pounding, phone recording in hand—there was something new.

The note was gone.

In its place, scratched into the wood, were five words:

“Don’t ask me to stop.”

That’s when she stopped sleeping.

She tried everything—salt across the doorway, sage smoke, even calling a local psychic she found online. The woman on the phone only said one thing before hanging up:

“If you’ve already opened the door… it’s too late.”

On the eighth night, Ava didn’t wait for the knocking. She sat by the door with her eyes locked on it.

2:13 a.m.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

She held her breath.

The door handle jiggled. Slowly. Gently.

Then stopped.

She whispered, “Who are you?”

No answer.

Only scratching.

Soft at first. Then deeper. Desperate. Like claws digging through wood.

Ava backed away, hands trembling, as the scratching turned into banging—furious, unrelenting.

Then… silence.

She rushed to the door and swung it open.

Nothing.

But now, the hallway light was flickering, and a trail of feathers led away from her door—down the stairs—into the dark.

She should have run.

Instead, she followed.

The trail led her to the basement.

She’d never been down there. The landlord had said it was “sealed off” due to water damage.

But now, the door was wide open.

She stepped inside.

The temperature dropped instantly. The air was thick with rot.

In the center of the room, a circle of black feathers surrounded an old wooden chair.

On the chair sat a figure. Back turned. Motionless.

Ava’s voice cracked, “Hello?”

The figure didn’t move.

She stepped closer, drawn to it by something she didn’t understand.

The figure slowly turned its head.

Its face was covered in feathers, eyes hollow, mouth stitched shut. And yet—it smiled.

Ava screamed and stumbled back, running up the stairs and slamming the basement door shut.

She called the police. When they arrived, the basement was sealed. No chair. No feathers. No trace of the figure.

They looked at her like she was losing her mind.

Maybe she was.

The knocking didn’t stop.

It spread.

Now it came from the bathroom mirror.

From inside the closet.

Under the bed.

Always at 2:13 a.m.

One night, she tried to leave. Packed her things and headed for the door.

But it wouldn’t open.

No matter how hard she tried, it stayed shut.

Then she heard it—right behind her.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

She turned slowly.

There it stood—tall, cloaked in shadows, feathered and smiling with stitched lips.

It raised one hand and pointed to the door.

The wood split open, revealing the words now burned deep into the grain:

“You let me in”