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The Knocking That Learned My Name
The knocking started at 2:17 a.m.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just three soft, deliberate taps on my bedroom door.
I live alone.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. The digital clock glowed red in the dark, and my room smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The house was quiet—too quiet—no hum from the fridge, no distant traffic, no insects outside. Silence so complete it pressed against my ears.
Then the knocking came again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just three soft, deliberate taps on my bedroom door.
I live alone.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. The digital clock glowed red in the dark, and my room smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The house was quiet—too quiet—no hum from the fridge, no distant traffic, no insects outside. Silence so complete it pressed against my ears.
Then the knocking came again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
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By Reece CarneyThe knocking started at 2:17 a.m.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just three soft, deliberate taps on my bedroom door.
I live alone.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. The digital clock glowed red in the dark, and my room smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The house was quiet—too quiet—no hum from the fridge, no distant traffic, no insects outside. Silence so complete it pressed against my ears.
Then the knocking came again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just three soft, deliberate taps on my bedroom door.
I live alone.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. The digital clock glowed red in the dark, and my room smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The house was quiet—too quiet—no hum from the fridge, no distant traffic, no insects outside. Silence so complete it pressed against my ears.
Then the knocking came again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.