The Midnight Visitor

In a quiet town nestled in the mountains, there was an old, decrepit house that had stood vacant for years. The locals avoided it, claiming it was cursed, haunted by something that had driven the last inhabitants to madness. It was said that anyone who stayed in the house would hear knocking at their door in the dead of night—a knock that should never be answered.

Emily, a young woman new to town, was intrigued by the house’s dark reputation. She was a writer of horror novels and was always on the lookout for inspiration. The idea of staying in a supposedly haunted house thrilled her, and despite the warnings from her neighbors, she decided to rent it for a month.

The house was just as eerie as she had imagined. The floors creaked underfoot, the walls were cracked and peeling, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew. But to Emily, it was perfect. She unpacked her belongings, set up her writing space, and began to settle in.

The first few days were uneventful. Emily spent her time exploring the house, making notes for her novel, and enjoying the solitude. She felt a strange sense of peace, as if the house was welcoming her, despite its ominous appearance. The nights were quiet, too quiet, but Emily found it soothing.

On the fifth night, however, things began to change.

It was just past midnight when Emily was jolted awake by a loud knock at the front door. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding. The knock was deliberate, heavy, and seemed to reverberate through the entire house.

She waited, holding her breath, but there was only silence. Thinking it was a prank by some local kids, she dismissed it and tried to go back to sleep. But just as she was drifting off, the knock came again, louder this time.

Emily’s curiosity got the better of her. She slipped out of bed, grabbing a flashlight, and made her way downstairs. The hallway was dark, the shadows deep, and the house felt different—heavier, more oppressive.

When she reached the front door, she hesitated. The warnings from the townspeople echoed in her mind, but she shook them off. It was just a door, just a knock. Nothing to be afraid of.

She opened the door, but no one was there. The night was still, the moon casting long shadows across the porch. Emily stepped outside, shining her flashlight around, but saw nothing unusual. Just as she was about to turn back, she noticed something strange—there was a small, dark stain on the porch, right where someone would have stood to knock.

Frowning, she crouched down to get a better look. The stain was wet, thick, and when she touched it, her fingers came away red. Blood.

A chill ran down her spine. She quickly wiped her fingers on her pajama pants and hurried back inside, locking the door behind her. She didn’t sleep much that night, the sound of the knock replaying in her mind over and over.

The next night, it happened again.

This time, the knock was even louder, more insistent. Emily didn’t go to the door immediately. She sat in bed, listening, trying to convince herself it was nothing. But the knocking continued, steady and unrelenting.

When she finally went to the door, she was trembling. She opened it slowly, her heart racing, but again, there was no one there. The only sign that anyone had been there was another dark stain on the porch, larger this time, the blood still fresh.

Emily slammed the door shut, fear gripping her. She knew now that something was terribly wrong, that the stories about the house were true. But it was too late to leave; the nearest neighbor was miles away, and she didn’t dare go out into the night.

The third night, the knocking started at exactly midnight. But this time, it didn’t stop. It grew louder, more frantic, as if whatever was on the other side was desperate to get in. The sound filled the house, echoing off the walls, shaking the very foundation.

Emily huddled in her bed, covering her ears, praying for it to stop. But it didn’t. The knocking continued, relentless, pounding against her mind until she thought she would go mad.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she screamed, “What do you want?!”

The knocking stopped.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the other side of the door, a voice whispered, “Let me in.”

It was a man’s voice, soft and calm, but filled with a cold, empty hunger that made Emily’s blood run cold. She didn’t respond, too terrified to move.

The voice spoke again, this time with more urgency. “Please, let me in. I’m lost. I need help.”

Emily shook her head, tears streaming down her face. She knew she couldn’t open the door, knew that whatever was out there wasn’t human. But the voice was so convincing, so desperate, that a part of her wanted to believe it.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The voice fell silent, and for a moment, Emily thought it was over. But then, with a force that shook the entire house, the knocking resumed, louder than before. The door rattled on its hinges, as if something was trying to break through.

Emily screamed, covering her ears, praying for it to stop. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the knocking ceased. The house was silent once more.

The next morning, Emily packed her bags and left the house, never looking back. She didn’t care about the novel, about the rent, about anything except getting away from that place.

Years later, she heard from a friend that the house had been demolished, the land left vacant and untouched. But the stories didn’t end. The locals still spoke of the midnight visitor, of the knocking that would come in the dead of night, and of the whispers that begged to be let in.

And those who did… were never seen again.