The Man Who Knocked Twice

The Man Who Knocked Twice

They said a man once lived alone in the house at the end of the lane.

A locksmith by trade, though not the kind who worked for neighbours.

His keys were for locks no one had seen.

Doors that did not belong to houses.

No one ever saw his shop in daylight.

Only a lamp burning after midnight.

Metal scraped and turned in the silence.

Shadows leaned against the walls as if listening.

Some claimed he made a key for a door he never should have touched.

Others whispered he stepped through it and never came back.

But a woman swore she saw him years later,

standing under her window in the rain.

His coat dripping. His hands empty. His eyes not quite human.

When she called down to ask what he wanted

he told her only this:

“There is always one more lock.

One more door.

One more chance to open the wrong thing.”

They say he walks still.

Looking for someone who has what he left behind.

And when he finds them,

he knocks twice.

It began with the sound of knuckles on wood.

Two sharp knocks at my door just after midnight.

Not hurried, not hesitant, just certain.

I had not been expecting anyone.

The street outside was empty.

The wind barely moved.

The silence was heavier than the dark.

I opened the door a fraction.

A man stood there in a black coat.

His face was pale as if the night itself had drained the colour from him.

He smiled without warmth.

“May I come in?”

My first thought was to close the door.

My second was stranger.

I wanted to hear his voice again.

He stepped inside without waiting.

His shoes left no sound on the floorboards.

He moved as though he had walked these rooms before.

“You have something of mine,” he said.

I told him I did not know what he meant.

He only smiled again and reached into his coat.

When his hand came out it was holding a key.

It was old and cold and wrong in a way I could not explain.

“Where does that open?” I asked.

His eyes lit with a cruel sort of amusement.

“You will know soon enough,” he replied.

I told him to leave.

He placed the key on my table.

“Once it turns,” he said, “you cannot turn it back.”

Then he walked out into the night.

I locked the door but the key stayed where he had set it.

It gleamed faintly as if it could see me.

I do not know what it opens.

I do not know when it will turn.

But I wake every night at midnight

and listen for the second knock.

Maybe he was a ghost

not here for the key at all

but to tell me it was time

to turn my life around.

It happened on the first frost of the year.

The air was thin enough to hear the street breathe.

I woke before the knock.

The key was no longer on the table.

It stood upright on the floorboards,

turning slowly in a lock that was not there.

The sound was soft but heavy,

like it had been waiting years for this one motion.

A cold light spilled where the key turned.

Not gold, not silver, just a colour my mind could not keep.

The air bent with it,

pulling me forward until my hand was almost on the glow.

I thought of the man in the coat.

The pale face.

The smile without warmth.

And I knew if I stepped through,

I would not come back the same.

The turning stopped.

The glow folded in on itself,

leaving only the key,

lying flat and harmless on the floor.

I bent to pick it up

and felt another hand close over mine.

Warm. Steady.

I looked up, but the room was empty.

I still keep the key.

I still hear it turn some nights.

And I still wake before the knock,

knowing one night,

I will open the wrong door on purpose.