It was nearly dusk when the knock came—three firm, deliberate raps that echoed through the quiet farmhouse like a warning. Sarah Jenkins stood at the sink, her hands submerged in warm, soapy water, her eyes drifting toward the hallway that led to the front door. She lived alone, by choice, and visitors were rare in the countryside, especially ones unannounced.
She dried her hands quickly on a towel, the rhythm of her heart beginning to climb. She glanced at the old clock hanging above the stove. 6:47 p.m.
The knock came again.
This time, louder.
Cautiously, she stepped toward the door. Her dog, Murphy, a shaggy mutt with more loyalty than good sense, stood beside her, his ears perked and his body rigid.
“Easy,” she whispered.
She peered through the peephole. A man stood there, alone, tall and dressed in a long dark coat, the collar turned up against the wind. He didn’t look particularly threatening, but something about him—his stillness, perhaps—put her on edge. He didn’t shift or fidget. He simply waited, hands clasped behind his back.
“Can I help you?” Sarah called out, not opening the door.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” the man said, his voice smooth and even. “I had a bit of car trouble down the road. My phone’s dead, and I saw the light on. I was hoping to borrow a charger, or maybe use your phone.”
His tone was polite. He didn’t seem panicked. But Sarah had lived long enough to know that evil often wore a pleasant face.
Still, the wind was picking up outside. Leaves scattered across the porch, and thunder grumbled in the distance.
She opened the door just a crack, the chain still latched.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
“About half a mile south. White sedan, off the shoulder.”
“You’re not from around here.”
He smiled, and though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, there was no menace in it. “Just passing through.”
Sarah hesitated. She should say no, she knew it. But something in her—a sense of compassion, or maybe curiosity—unlatched the chain and opened the door a bit wider.
“You can come in,” she said, “but just for a minute. Phone’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” he said, stepping in. He paused to wipe his shoes on the mat. Murphy sniffed at his legs, then gave a reluctant wag of his tail.
The man glanced around the entryway. “Nice place. Old. Solid.”
“My grandfather built it.”
“I can tell.”
They walked to the kitchen. Sarah handed him her cell phone from the counter. He took it gingerly, like it was a delicate object.
“May I?” he asked, and she nodded.
He dialed a number, waited.
“No answer,” he muttered, then tapped again. “Friend of mine works at a shop in the next town. He might be able to tow it.”
Sarah busied herself drying dishes, casting occasional glances at him. He moved slowly, deliberately, his posture too perfect. The kind of posture you didn’t see much anymore, outside of military men or trained professionals.
After a moment, he set the phone down.
“No luck?”
“Voicemail,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just wait a bit. Try again later.”
Sarah crossed her arms. “You’re welcome to sit a while, but I can’t offer you a ride. I don’t drive at night.”
“Wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “Appreciate your kindness.”
He sat at the kitchen table, his eyes flicking to the framed photos on the wall—pictures of Sarah’s parents, long gone, and her younger brother in uniform.
“Your brother serve?”
She nodded. “Afghanistan. Came home, but never really came back, you know?”
“I do,” he said quietly.
There was a pause.
“I was Army myself,” he added, as if to bridge the silence. “Long time ago.”
She studied him more closely now. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. His face had that ageless quality—worn, but not haggard. Calm, but alert.
“You’re not telling me everything,” she said.
He looked at her then, meeting her gaze directly. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”
The hair on her arms stood up.
“Why are you really here?” she asked, her voice low.
He sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Someone is coming,” he said. “And you’re not safe.”
“What?”
“Tonight. Within the hour. Someone is coming to this house. I needed to be here first.”
Sarah’s mind raced. “Is this some kind of threat?”
“No. A warning.”
Murphy let out a low growl, his hackles rising. The man remained still.
“Who’s coming?”
“I don’t know his name. But he’s been looking for something. Or someone. He’s already been to two houses down the road. Those people didn’t make it.”
Sarah’s blood ran cold. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ve been following him. Trying to stop him. And now, it’s your turn.”
“Why?”
“I think you have something he wants.”
“I don’t—”
“Think,” he interrupted. “Anything unusual in the past week? Packages? Visitors? Something that didn’t belong?”
She tried to recall. Nothing stood out—except—
“A book,” she said slowly. “It arrived in the mail. No return address. Old. Leather-bound.”
He stood up. “Where is it?”
“Living room.”
She led him there. The book was still on the coffee table, untouched for days. She hadn’t even opened it. The cover had no title, only a strange symbol embossed in gold.
He picked it up with a kind of reverence—and concern.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t.”
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“It’s a key,” he said eventually. “To something that shouldn’t be opened.”
The storm outside had arrived, rain pelting the windows like thrown stones. The power flickered.
Then the lights went out.
“Stay here,” the man said. “No matter what.”
He moved toward the front door, pulling something from inside his coat. A blade—long, curved, ancient.
Sarah’s voice trembled. “Who are you?”
He paused, his back to her.
“Someone who’s seen this before.”
There was a sound outside. A thud, like someone had dropped a body onto the porch.
Murphy barked, a feral, furious sound.
The man reached for the doorknob.
“Don’t open it,” Sarah said.
“I have to.”
He opened the door.
Wind howled inside, carrying with it a scent of rot and sulfur. A figure stood on the porch, cloaked in black, its face hidden beneath a hood. It didn’t speak.
The man stepped out, blade in hand.
The door slammed behind him.
Sarah ran to the window, peering out. The two figures clashed like shadows—blurs of movement, bursts of light and sound. Murphy barked relentlessly, his nails scraping the wood floor.
Then, silence.
She opened the door.
The stranger lay on the porch, wounded but breathing. The other figure was gone—vanished like mist.
She knelt beside him. “Can you move?”
He nodded weakly. “It’s not over. He’ll try again.”
She helped him inside. The book still lay on the table, as if untouched by the chaos.
“What do I do with it?” she asked.
“Guard it. Hide it. Burn it if you must.”
He gripped her hand.
“I’ll return. If I can.”
Then, he passed out.
***
The stranger stayed unconscious through the night. Sarah bandaged his wounds as best she could, using her brother’s old field kit. When morning came, he was gone—vanished without a trace, the only evidence of his presence a smear of blood on the porch and a clean blade left on the table.
Sarah hid the book, deep in the cellar, behind bricks she loosened herself. She told no one what happened.
But every night after that, she checked the locks twice. And kept the lights on until morning.
Because sometimes, strangers knock with kindness.
And sometimes, they knock to warn you.
React
