The Man Who Knocked Twice

The sound was precise, deliberate, like someone rapping their knuckles on wood with the intent of being heard. At first, I thought it was a prank—maybe some teenager trying to scare the neighborhood. But after the fifth night in a row, I realized this wasn’t ordinary mischief.

I lived alone, in a small house at the edge of town. My nearest neighbor was half a mile down the dirt road, and the woods pressed against the back of the property like a black wall. I didn’t have many visitors, especially not in the dead of night.

The first time I opened the door, there was no one. Just the cold night air, the whisper of the trees, and the dark gravel stretching out under the pale moonlight. I checked the yard, the porch, even the path leading into the woods. Nothing.

The second night, the same knocks came, and again—no one there. By the third night, I stopped opening the door. I just lay in bed, listening, heart pounding against my ribs. But it didn’t stop. Every night at 3:07, those two knocks came.

Knock. Knock.

One night, curiosity gnawed at me more than fear. I sat by the door, waiting with the chain lock in place. I told myself I wouldn’t open it, just peek through the peephole. When the knocks came, I pressed my eye to the glass.

The porch was empty.

And yet, as I watched, the doorknob began to turn—slowly, carefully—as if someone was testing it. I stumbled back, pulse racing, until the knob stopped. The door never opened.

After that, I started keeping a knife by my bed.

Days turned into a week, and my nerves frayed like old rope. I barely slept, barely ate. My friends stopped visiting after I snapped at them one too many times. Work became impossible—I kept falling asleep at my desk, jerking awake at the memory of those knocks.

Then came the night everything changed.

I don’t know why I opened the door that time. Maybe exhaustion dulled my fear, or maybe some part of me wanted answers more than safety.

The knocks came—knock, knock—and before I could think, I yanked the door open wide.

This time, there was someone standing there.

A man.

He was tall, his shoulders hunched beneath a long coat that looked wet and ragged, though it wasn’t raining. His face was pale, waxy, like the skin of a drowned body. His eyes… they were dark, too dark, like holes punched through his face.

“Finally,” he whispered, voice like dry leaves scraping together.

My mouth went dry. “What do you want?” I managed to choke out.

He smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too many. “I knocked,” he said. “Now you must answer.”

I tried to slam the door shut, but his hand shot out and caught it. His grip was cold, stronger than steel. I pushed with all my weight, but the door didn’t budge. His head tilted as he studied me.

“You opened the door,” he said. “That means you let me in.”

And then—he vanished.

The porch was empty. The woods were still. I was alone again, or so I thought.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the corner of my bedroom with the knife clutched tight, waiting for something, anything. But no knocks came. The silence was worse.

The next morning, I noticed something strange. The inside of my door had faint, damp handprints smeared across it—as though someone had pushed their way inside.

Since then, my nights have changed. The knocking has stopped, but now I hear footsteps in the hall, even when I’m the only one home. Sometimes, I wake up to find my furniture slightly moved, or the window cracked open though I locked it the night before.

And sometimes, when I pass by a mirror, I see him standing behind me.

The man who knocked twice.