The Midnight Guest

It was soft—barely audible—like a fingernail tapping on glass. James sat up in bed, blinking against the dim glow of his nightlight. The wind howled outside his old country house, rattling the windows and moaning through the cracks. He rubbed his eyes and strained his ears.

There it was again.

• Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three gentle taps, deliberate and slow, coming from the front door.

He wasn’t expecting anyone. Not at this hour. Not ever, really—he lived miles from the nearest town, in a house he’d inherited from an uncle he barely knew.

Wrapping a blanket around himself, James tiptoed down the creaky staircase. The floorboards groaned under his weight. The house, built in the 1800s, had a way of amplifying every noise at night. As he reached the hallway, he hesitated. The door's stained glass window offered only darkness on the other side.

• Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, it sounded...closer. Like the knuckles were just inches from his face. James’s heart pounded.

“Who’s there?” he called out, voice trembling slightly.

Silence.

He glanced at the grandfather clock. 12:06 a.m.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the door, unbolted it, and swung it open. Cold wind blasted into the hallway, but the porch was empty. Not a soul in sight.

He stepped outside, scanning the moonlit yard. The gravel driveway was undisturbed. No footprints. No car. No person. Just the sound of the wind and the rustling trees.

As he turned to go back inside, he noticed something peculiar: a muddy footprint on the doormat. Fresh. Human. Barefoot.

James locked the door and triple-checked it.

e told himself it was probably a prank—maybe some kids dared each other to scare him. Still, sleep didn’t come easy. When he finally drifted off, it was to the sound of creaking floorboards somewhere above him.

The next night, it happened again.

• Knock. Knock. Knock.

At exactly midnight.

James was ready this time. He’d set up a security camera on the porch. When the knocking started, he waited in the living room, holding a flashlight and a baseball bat. He counted to ten before opening the door.

Again, no one there.

He rushed to his laptop to review the footage. The video showed the porch—empty. But at precisely midnight, the audio captured the knocking loud and clear. From thin air.

Even more disturbing was the shape that flickered in one frame. A shadow—tall and thin—loomed behind the door for a split second before vanishing.

James froze the video and zoomed in. The shape had no facial features. Just two black hollows where eyes should be.

The third night, James didn’t sleep at all.

He stayed up, every light in the house blazing, sitting in a kitchen chair with the bat in hand. Midnight came, and the knocks followed.

• Knock. Knock. Knock.

But this time, they weren’t on the front door.

They came from upstairs.

From the guest bedroom.

James nearly dropped the bat.

He hadn’t opened that room since moving in. His uncle had always kept it locked. The key was still in a drawer.

He took a flashlight and crept up the stairs, each step agonizingly slow. The hallway was dark and cold. His breath misted in front of him.

When he reached the guest room door, he found it slightly ajar.

The knocking had stopped.

With a trembling hand, he pushed the door open.

The room was pitch black. He swung the flashlight around. Dust covered the furniture, and cobwebs hung like curtains.

Then he saw it.

A figure stood in the far corner, facing the wall.

Tall. Thin. Pale. Motionless.

The flashlight flickered. The air grew icy.

“Who are you?” James managed to whisper.

The figure turned.

No eyes. No mouth. Just smooth, pale skin—like wax. But the thing somehow smiled.

James stumbled back, slamming the door and bolting it shut. He ran downstairs and didn’t stop until he was outside in his car, engine roaring, tires spinning on the gravel as he sped down the road.

The next morning, he returned with the sheriff.

The guest room was empty.

No figure. No signs of disturbance—other than three long scratch marks on the inside of the door.

The sheriff didn’t believe him. Suggested stress, maybe hallucinations.

James didn’t argue. He didn’t care. He packed his things and left that house for good.

But the story didn’t end there.

Weeks later, James moved into a new apartment in the city. Sleek. Modern. No history. No creaky floors.

For a while, everything was fine.

Until one night, at exactly midnight, he heard it again.

• Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not at the front door this time.

From his closet.

THE END