The Silent Knock

I never believed in supernatural stories. Not really. I used to laugh them off as exaggerated village gossip. But something happened to me in 2021 that shook my reality in a way I still haven’t recovered from. I wasn’t hallucinating, I wasn’t dreaming, and I wasn’t alone.

It started when I went to visit my maternal grandmother’s home in a rural part of Netrokona, Bangladesh. It’s one of those areas where the mobile signal disappears after 8 PM, and the air feels heavier at night. The house is old, built on the remnants of a structure even older. Clay walls, bamboo fences, and stories that the elders never quite finished.

The first three days were peaceful. I read old books, explored nearby fields, and slept like a baby. But on the fourth night, something changed.

I woke up around 2:30 AM, thirsty. The house doesn’t have indoor plumbing, so I walked to the water jug in the courtyard. As I passed through the hallway, I noticed something that made me stop cold.

There was a door in the wall opposite mine.

A door that was never there before.

I’ve been visiting this house every year since I was a child. That wall has always been solid—no cracks, no frames, just a painted clay surface. But now, a wooden door stood there with an iron handle, blackened by age. The wood looked ancient, carved with markings—like runes or warnings.

I stepped closer. I wasn’t dreaming—I was fully awake.

I reached out to touch the handle. It was ice cold. A shiver ran through my spine, and the air in the hallway thickened—as if something was watching me.

The moment my skin touched the iron, I heard a voice. But not with my ears—inside my head.

It whispered: “Don’t open what you cannot close.”

I pulled my hand back. My heart pounded. Just then, my uncle walked out of his room, yawning. He looked at me, then at the door, and then… didn’t react.

He simply asked, “Water?”

I stammered, “Uncle… that door… do you see it?”

He squinted, looked around, and said, “What door? You okay? Go get water.”

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. And in the morning—the door was gone. The wall was normal again, as if nothing had happened.

I convinced myself it was a half-awake dream. My mind was tired, that’s all. Until the last night.

That night, a storm hit. The kind where wind howls like a scream and trees bang against the windows. Power went out before 10 PM. I was lying in bed when I heard it:

Knocking.

Not from outside. From inside the house.

Three slow, heavy knocks.

Thok… Thok… Thok…

Coming from that same wall.

I sat up, my skin cold with fear. I opened the door slowly, flashlight in hand.

The door was back.

Same markings. Same black iron handle. But now—there were fingernail scratches on the wood. As if someone—or something—had been clawing from the inside.

The air was thick with something I can't describe—like a mixture of mud, incense, and rot. My flashlight flickered, then died.

Then I heard it.

Breathing.

Heavy. Wet. Close.

Then… a voice.

This time, not in my head. Real.

It whispered: “I never left.”

I ran. I didn’t look back. I locked myself in my grandmother’s room until sunrise.

In the morning, once again—the door was gone.

Back in Dhaka, I started researching. I asked old neighbors about the house. Most said nothing. One elderly man, barely able to speak, told me the house was built on the foundation of another. It had belonged to a man named Yusuf who practiced dark rituals. People whispered that he’d created a “gateway.”

He was found dead in 1963, aged unnaturally. No signs of injury. Just… aged beyond time. His house was destroyed later, but the land remained.

And my grandmother’s home was built right there.

Since then, I haven’t returned.

But sometimes, late at night, I still hear knocking.

Only three knocks.

Always three.

Thok… Thok… Thok…

And then—when the world goes still—

A voice whispers from the shadows of my room:

“I never left.”

And when I turn to look, there is no door—only wall.

But I know it’s waiting.