The Last Knock

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Jaclyn whispered the warning to herself as the wind screeched outside, shaking the fragile walls of the cabin. The old Applegate Estates on Old Hwy 90 groaned with age, but the rule had kept her safe so far. She wished she hadn’t come here, but the storm trapped her, cutting off any chance of escape.

Then, the knocking began.

It was soft at first, like fingers gently brushing against the wood. Jaclyn froze. There shouldn’t be anyone for miles. The nearest town was hours away. But there it was again—tap-tap-tap.

Her pulse raced. The key, cold and heavy in her pocket, pressed into her palm. She remembered her grandmother’s face, pale and drawn as she handed it to her, voice stern.

“There’s only one rule: don’t open the door.”

The knock came again, louder. More demanding.

Then a voice followed, low and familiar. “Jaclyn… let me in.”

Her stomach twisted into knots. It was him. It was her brother’s voice. The same brother who had vanished into the woods, never to return. Her hands trembled, and for a moment, she moved closer to the door. Her heart begged her to believe it, that maybe, just maybe, he was alive.

But something was wrong. The voice was too flat, too calm. It wasn’t him—it couldn’t be. Her brother would’ve been screaming for help, not whispering.

“Jaclyn,” the voice rasped, “please... open the door. I’m right here.”

The door bulged inward as if something on the other side was pushing, straining to get in. The knocking grew frantic, more like claws scraping. The doorframe creaked, and the smell of decay seeped through the cracks, suffocating her.

Her brother’s voice twisted into something darker. “Open the door... or I’ll open it for you.”

Jaclyn backed away, her skin crawling. She squeezed the key, remembering the rule. She would not break it.

The door shuddered violently, then fell silent.

A soft laugh echoed through the room. "There’s more than one way in, Jaclyn."