The knocking started after the house finished settling.
Three slow raps. Careful. Polite.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths. The clock glowed 2:17 a.m. No wind. No trees close enough to hit the walls. Another knock came—this time from inside the bedroom door.
"Mom?" a child's voice whispered.
My stomach tightened. I live alone.
The voice tried again, closer now, right against the wood. "Please. You locked me out."
I didn't move. I remembered the warning my neighbor gave me when I moved in: If you hear someone you recognize, don't answer.
Something dragged along the door, nails maybe, slow and patient. Then the voice changed—deeper, wet, smiling.
"I can wait," it said.
The handle began to turn.
And from under my bed, my phone lit up with a new message:
Mom: Why are you calling me at 2:17 a.m.?
The knocking stopped.
Right beside me.