I’ve always considered myself a skeptic. Ghost stories, urban legends, strange disappearances—they were just tales spun to pass time on stormy nights. That was until one particular night, when a stranger came to my door.
It was late October, a week after Halloween. My parents were away visiting my grandmother in another state, leaving me alone in our old, creaky house at the edge of the forest. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the solitude, the quiet hum of the wind through the trees, and the way the house settled around me. That evening, it had started to rain. By midnight, the storm was raging, wind howling like a wounded animal.
I was curled up on the living room couch with a blanket and a horror novel—ironic now that I think about it—when the power went out. The lights blinked once, then everything was consumed by darkness. I groaned, grabbed a flashlight from the drawer, and lit a few candles. The quiet buzz of electricity that we take for granted disappeared, and I was left with the sound of rain hammering the roof and branches scraping the windows.
I checked my phone. It was 3:17 AM.
That’s when I heard it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three slow, heavy knocks at the front door. I froze, flashlight trembling in my hand. No one should’ve been outside at this hour, especially not in this storm. I crept to the door and peeked through the peephole.
A man stood there.
Tall. Motionless. His clothes were soaked, plastered to his skin. He wore no jacket or umbrella. His head was tilted slightly—unnaturally—to one side, like his neck had snapped and never healed. His skin was unnervingly pale, bluish even, and his eyes… they were wide open, unblinking, staring directly into the peephole.
He didn’t knock again. He didn’t speak. He just waited.
Something primal inside me screamed don’t open the door.
I stepped back quietly, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it echo in my ears. I tried to convince myself it was just a traveler looking for help, maybe a stranded driver.
But then, the knocking came again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Louder. More insistent.
I wanted to call the police, but my phone had no signal. I grabbed the landline—dead. No dial tone. I looked out the window toward the road, hoping to see a car or a flashlight. Nothing. Just darkness.
That’s when I heard it.
A second knock.
This time, from the back door.
I ran to the kitchen, nearly slipping on the hardwood floor. I shined the flashlight through the glass door. No one.
But then… I heard whispering.
It was faint, but clear enough to make my blood turn to ice. It sounded like it was coming from right behind me.
“You shouldn’t have looked.”
I spun around, but the kitchen was empty.
The flashlight flickered.
Then died.
Pitch black.
I backed into the corner, fumbling for my phone, hoping the screen would light up. It didn’t. Nothing worked. Even the candles I’d lit earlier were out.
The house was utterly, unnaturally silent.
Then I heard footsteps. Inside.
Slow, deliberate, and coming from the hallway.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”
I bolted upstairs, heart hammering, and slammed the door to my bedroom shut. I locked it, pushed my dresser in front of it, and curled into a corner. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… waited.
And then came the knock.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
On my bedroom door.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My entire body was frozen. Then… silence.
No footsteps. No voices. Nothing.
Time passed, but I couldn’t tell how much. Hours, maybe. The next time I looked at my phone, it was 6:42 AM. The sun had begun to rise. I waited until light flooded my room, then slowly moved the dresser and opened the door.
Nothing. No one.
Downstairs, the candles had melted into puddles. The doors were still locked. Everything seemed normal—except for one thing.
The front door was open.
Wide open.
My hands trembled as I stepped out onto the porch. The storm had passed. The sky was grey, still dripping with mist, and the world was quiet again. I glanced around the yard.
No footprints.
Not even mine.
I told my parents everything when they returned. They thought I’d had a nightmare. I almost believed them—until we checked the security camera.
We only had one camera, pointed at the front porch.
The footage showed me turning off the light and going to bed around midnight. Hours passed. Then, at 3:17 AM, the camera glitched. Static filled the screen for several seconds. When the image returned, the front door was wide open.
And standing in the doorway was a tall man.
Still. Pale. Head tilted. Just staring into the house.
The image flickered again, and he was gone.
That day, I started sleeping with the lights on. I moved my bed away from the door. And I never, ever stay home alone anymore.
Because sometimes, a knock at the door isn’t someone asking for help.
Sometimes, it’s something that’s been waiting to be let in.
And if you open the door after 3:17 AM…
It never leaves.
React
