The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come

The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come

Blurb

When a knock echoes through the house at midnight, the narrator thinks it’s nothing more than a prank. But the silence that follows, the footprints on the floor, and the stranger waiting in the bedroom tell a different story. Some doors should never be opened.

It was close to midnight when the first knock came.

Not a heavy pounding, not the playful tap of a friend — but a soft, deliberate rap that seemed to echo through my bones.

I froze where I sat. My apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. I wasn’t expecting anyone. My phone showed no new messages. And yet… someone was there.

Another knock.

Steadier this time.

I stood, my breath shallow, and walked toward the door. My hallway light flickered as if even the electricity was nervous. I pressed my eye against the peephole.

Nothing. Just rain slicking the concrete steps outside.

I almost laughed it off, convincing myself it was kids playing a prank, until I noticed something. A faint shadow, barely moving, just out of sight.

My hand hovered over the deadbolt. Against my better judgment, I called out, “Who’s there?”

No answer. Only silence.

A third knock.

Harder. Closer. As though the sound was inside the walls this time.

The air grew colder. My skin prickled. Suddenly, every horror story I had ever read crawled back into my mind. I backed away from the door.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

A text.

It was from my own number.

The message read: Don’t open the door.

My heart thundered. My number? How? My fingers trembled as I typed: Who is this?

No reply.

A fourth knock — this one sharp, impatient.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Against every instinct, I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Rain washed over the steps. The streetlamp flickered. Nobody was there.

Relief hit me like a wave — until I turned back inside.

And saw the wet footprints trailing across my living room floor.

They led from the door. Past the hallway. Straight toward my bedroom.

I grabbed the nearest thing I could find — a kitchen knife — and followed the trail. Each step felt heavier, the silence pressing on me like a weight.

The apartment seemed wrong now, stretched somehow, as if the walls were leaning in closer with every step I took. The pictures on the wall looked tilted, the hallway darker than it should have been. My own reflection in the glass of a frame looked… delayed, like it blinked half a second after I did.

When I reached the bedroom door, it was already half open. The footprints disappeared inside.

I pushed it open slowly. My hand shook.

And then I froze.

Sitting on the edge of my bed… was me.

Same clothes. Same face. Same wide eyes staring back. But the other me looked exhausted, drenched, like I’d been standing out in the rain for hours.

My double raised its head, lips trembling. “I told you not to open the door,” it whispered.

The knife slipped from my hand. My mind spun, unable to process what I was seeing.

The other me leaned forward, voice cracking with desperation:

“You let it in.”

Behind me, in the dark hallway, came the sound of another knock.

This time, from inside the apartment.

And worse — it wasn’t coming from the front door anymore.

It was coming from the closet.