The Knock at Midnight

I had been living alone in the old townhouse for almost a month when it started. It was a quiet street, and I liked it that way. The first knock came at exactly midnight. I was reading in bed, the only light coming from my bedside lamp, when a soft tapping echoed through the wooden door. I paused, thinking it must be a neighbor, though I didn’t expect anyone to visit so late. When I opened the door, the hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows and silence. I shrugged, assuming it was a branch or a small animal hitting the window, and went back to bed.

The next night, the knock returned. Louder this time. Three distinct taps, spaced evenly, followed by silence. My heart raced as I walked to the door. I looked through the peephole. Empty hallway. The building was old, the floorboards groaning under their own weight, but no one was there. I tried to ignore it, but a chill ran down my spine. I locked the door, double-checked the windows, and pulled the covers over my head.

By the third night, the knocking came not just at midnight, but at 11:57, 11:58, 11:59… a countdown. I sat upright in bed, hands shaking. When the clock struck midnight, the knock came from inside the room. Soft at first, then louder. The sound came from the corner, where nothing should have been. I held my breath, convinced I was imagining things, but then it repeated: three firm, deliberate taps, followed by silence.

I got up slowly, my feet cold on the wooden floor. The sound moved closer with each tap, as if it were coming toward me. I grabbed a flashlight, sweeping the beam across the room. Shadows danced on the walls, but the corner remained empty. Still, the knocking persisted. I realized it wasn’t the door or the walls—it was coming from the floorboards beneath me.

I left the house that night, pacing the empty street, trying to calm myself. When I returned in the morning, I told myself I was tired, stressed, imagining things in the darkness. The day passed uneventfully. I went to bed early, hoping sleep would bring relief.

The fourth night was worse. The knocking began earlier, more persistent. It started at ten, soft, hesitant, as if testing me. By eleven, it was insistent. By midnight, it was deafening in my mind, though still soft to the ear. I pressed my hands over my ears, hoping to drown it out. Then came the whisper, soft and raspy: “Let me in.

I froze. My heart pounded. “Who’s there?” I asked, voice trembling. Silence followed. Then the knocking moved again, circling the room. I swung the flashlight in a frenzy, seeing nothing but shadows. When I finally looked at the corner where the voice had come from, I saw a figure: dark, blurry, humanoid, but undefined, as if it were made of smoke. It tilted its head, and I felt a pull in my chest, a strange sensation of dread and recognition.

I ran. I ran out into the street, leaving the door wide open, ignoring the rain soaking my clothes. I stayed with a friend that night, trying to convince myself it was a hallucination, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t. The feeling of being followed, watched, and tested stayed with me for weeks afterward.

When I returned briefly to the house to collect my things, everything seemed normal. No figure, no whisper, no knock. The floorboards were quiet. But as I closed the door for the last time, I heard three taps, soft and deliberate, echoing in my memory.

I moved far away after that. I changed my phone number, my address, everything I could. But every night, in every strange house, I swear I can still hear the knock at midnight. Waiting. Patient.