The Midnight Visitor

A lonely house at the end of the street was the perfect escape.

Sarah had always wanted to live in a quiet, secluded house away from the noise of the city. After years of living in cramped apartments, she finally found the perfect home—a small, run-down house at the end of a forgotten street. It was isolated, surrounded by thick woods, and offered the peace and solitude she longed for.

The house was old, with creaky floors and dust-covered furniture, but it was charming in its own way. Despite its imperfections, Sarah felt at home. The only downside was the eerie quietness, broken only by the wind rustling the trees outside. She didn’t mind, though. The solitude was what she needed.

The strange knock at midnight left Sarah uneasy.

One night, as Sarah was reading in the living room, she heard a knock at the door. She glanced at the clock—it was exactly midnight. Her heart skipped a beat. Who would be visiting her at this hour, especially in such a remote location?

Nervously, she walked toward the door. She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to open it. The knock came again, this time louder, more insistent. Despite her growing unease, she turned the doorknob and opened the door.

Standing there was a figure cloaked in darkness. The figure’s face was hidden in the shadows, and there was an unsettling stillness about him. He didn’t speak, but Sarah could feel his presence pressing against her, an oppressive weight that made her skin crawl.

The visitor's face was obscured, but his voice was unmistakable.

“Sarah…” the voice whispered, barely audible, but unmistakably familiar.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was the voice of her late brother, Mark. He had died in a car accident five years ago, and yet here he was, standing on her doorstep in the dead of night.

"Mark?" she whispered, unable to fully grasp what was happening.

The figure did not move, but she could hear the low, mournful tone of his voice as he repeated her name. “Sarah… it’s me.”

Tears welled up in Sarah’s eyes, and she took a step back, her heart racing. How could this be? She knew it wasn’t possible, but the voice sounded so real. Desperate to make sense of it, she reached out to touch the figure, but just before her hand made contact, the figure stepped back into the darkness, vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared.

The chilling truth behind the midnight knock revealed a horrifying fate.

Confused and shaken, Sarah tried to return to her routine, but the strange encounter lingered in her mind. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. That night, as she lay in bed, she heard the knock again. It was the same time—midnight.

This time, Sarah didn’t open the door. Instead, she called the police, her voice trembling as she explained what had happened. The officers arrived quickly and searched the area but found no trace of anyone. There was no sign of a visitor, no footprints in the snow.

The following days were filled with an eerie tension. Sarah began to notice strange things happening around the house—objects shifting on their own, faint whispers in the dark, and the feeling of being watched. But it wasn’t until the third night that the truth became clear.

Sarah awoke to a cold chill in the air. The knock echoed through the house once more, louder this time, as if demanding to be answered. Terrified, she went to the door again. But this time, she knew better than to open it.

Instead, she peeked through the peephole. What she saw sent a wave of nausea through her.

There, standing in the doorway, was not a stranger but her own reflection, twisted and contorted, with hollow eyes that stared back at her.

The voice came again, now louder and clearer. “Sarah… let me in.”

Suddenly, the truth hit her with horrifying clarity. The figure was not Mark—it was Death itself, the same force that had claimed her brother’s life. The knock at midnight wasn’t a visitor—it was a summons, and Sarah had been chosen to join the others who had fallen prey to the house.

With a scream, Sarah tried to run, but the door slammed shut, trapping her inside. The whispers grew louder, the walls began to close in, and she realized with a sickening certainty that she would never escape.

The next morning, the house stood silent once again, as it always did. But if you looked closely, you might notice the faint outline of a figure, standing at the window, waiting for the next victim to arrive.