The Last Knock

It was Halloween night, and fallen leaves were scattered across the city streets. The north wind carried the message of winter’s arrival, and little children were knocking on doors in their colorful costumes—“Trick or Treat!”

But Nathan was alone.

He didn’t have a costume, because his mother didn’t have money to buy new ones. There was no proper food in their house, let alone clothes. Nathan had gone out in his old, dusty sweater, and had made a white mask out of paper. He had a small bag in his hand, hoping to get candy.

But that night, no one saw him. Or wanted to see him.

First house: The light went out after a knock on the door.

Second house: A woman opened the curtains, then closed them again.

Third house: A dog barked, but there was no answer.

Nathan stared at each closed door in shock. The other children were laughing, running, and having fun with their bags of candy. His bag was still empty.

The last house was the McCoy family's. The big house, the jack-o-lantern in front, the cutouts of ghosts on the ceiling, the artificial skeleton in front of the door.

Nathan slowly went over and knocked on the door. Once… twice… three times.

No one opened it.

He was shivering, cold and humiliated. He stood there for a few seconds… then slowly turned around.

And no one saw him that day.

A year later.

The McCoy family had set up their big house again. Bowls full of candy, a garden with lights, moving skeletons, and artificial fog. The children were coming in droves, full of joy.

But as the night wore on, strange things began to happen.

First, a child was lost—only two minutes had passed since he had left his mother's arms.

Then the skeletons in the garden suddenly started moving on their own, even though they were all battery-operated and locked.

Most terrifying of all, a small bag of candy was found in front of the McCoy family’s front door—completely empty.

Mrs. McCoy panicked and closed the door. She still hadn’t realized that the person they had given their door back to last year had returned.

The bell rang.

The McCoys didn’t open the door. They turned off the lights.

But this time no one left.

The bell rang again.

Louder.

Then the door began to shake—as if someone was pushing it from outside.

Both Mr. and Mrs. McCoy rushed to the door, but didn’t dare open it.

Suddenly, a crashing sound came from the roof.

Their son Tommy screamed—the window of his room was open, and a shadow in a white mask was standing inside.

Mr. McKay ran upstairs, but when he reached his son's room, no one was there.

Tommy was in bed, motionless.

Next to his bag was an old, dirty candy wrapper. It read—"Too late to treat."

The next morning, the police arrived to find Tommy missing. He was nowhere to be found. The doors and windows were locked, the CCTV off. There was no evidence.

However, there were small footprints in the yard—it was clear that someone had been there that night. Someone was wearing torn, old shoes.

A neighbor said he saw a child walking down the street around 1 a.m.—wearing a gray mask.

But since that day, no one has seen him again.

More years passed.

The residents of Cleaver Street gradually reduced their Halloween decorations. No one left candy on the door anymore. No one painted ghosts on the windows anymore.

Because they know—

If someone doesn't open the door on Halloween night, if someone doesn't leave candy for that lonely child—

then he comes knocking not on the door, but on the grave.