The Third Knock

The first knock came at midnight. Slow. Hollow.

Lying in bed, breath held tight, the sound was dismissed as the wind.

The second knock followed minutes later—louder, insistent. The door trembled.

Heart pounding, feet touched the cold floor, creeping toward the entrance. The peephole revealed nothing but darkness. No footsteps. No voices. Just silence stretching too long.

The third knock. A whisper slipped through the keyhole: "Let me in."

A hand hesitated on the doorknob.

The door burst open.

Darkness flooded in, swallowing the room, swallowing the walls—swallowing the scream that never escaped.

By morning, the house stood empty. The bed undisturbed. The door locked.

But somewhere, in the still air of that forgotten room, a faint knocking began again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Would you open the door?