The Night It Knocked Twice

The first knock came at 2:03 a.m. sharp.

Three dull thuds against the front door — slow, steady, wrong.

My dog didn’t bark. My parents didn’t stir. Only I sat up in bed, heart pounding like it knew something I didn’t.

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There’s an old legend in our town:

“The first knock is a warning. The second is a choice.”

No one ever explained what that choice meant. Maybe they didn’t want to. Maybe they never got the chance.

It was a stormy night — thunder rolled like war drums over the hills, and wind clawed at the windows. Power had gone out an hour earlier, and my phone had just 12% battery. I thought maybe the noise had been a branch. Or a dream.

But when I crept downstairs in my socks, flashlight flickering weakly, I saw it.

Three muddy prints on the welcome mat. Human. Barefoot. Fresh.

I didn’t open the door.

Instead, I sat in the dark living room, watching the front door through the reflection of the mirror hanging above the fireplace. I waited. For nothing, I hoped. But 20 minutes later, the knock came again.

The second knock.

Only this time, it wasn’t three. Just one. A hollow boom that shook the frame, but didn’t rattle the windows.

My chest tightened. The room felt colder. The air pressed in on me like the house was holding its breath.

Then something new: a voice. Soft. Childlike.

“Open the door, Liam…”

My name. It said my name.

I whispered, “Who are you?”

No answer.

I stepped back. My flashlight died. Just like that. Full black.

I ran upstairs, shut my bedroom door, and climbed into bed like a child hiding from the monster in the closet. And maybe I was. Because in that moment, I knew—that thing outside wasn’t human. Not anymore.

I didn’t sleep.

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By morning, the sky was calm. Sunlight painted golden stripes on the walls. When I opened the front door, the prints were gone. No sign of mud. No voice. No knock.

I told my parents. They laughed. “It was just the storm,” they said. “Bad dreams.”

But I started researching. I found forum posts, old Reddit threads, even a scanned newspaper clipping from 1974:

> “Teen Found Dead After Second Knock — Claims of ‘Choosing Wrong’ Puzzle Police.”

That phrase stuck with me. Choosing wrong.

I didn’t know I had made a choice. But apparently, not answering was still an answer.

Over the next few nights, I noticed little things. The mirror in my room fogged up on its own. My dog refused to enter the hallway. My phone glitched every night at exactly 2:03 a.m.

Then on the seventh night, it came back.

This time, it didn’t knock.

I woke to find my bedroom door wide open, though I’d locked it. My reflection in the mirror was smiling, even though I wasn’t. And on the glass, scrawled in fog, were the words:

“You still have time to open it.”

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I left town the next day. Stayed with relatives two states away. For weeks, I avoided doors after dark, mirrors altogether. I slept with the lights on and the windows sealed shut.

But you can’t run from something that isn’t bound by walls.

Last night, at my cousin’s place, I heard it again.

2:03 a.m.

One knock. Then silence.

And the whisper:

“One more chance, Liam…”

This time, I didn’t wait for the second knock.

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— Muhammad Riaz

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