Midnight

The clock struck midnight, and the world held its breath.

So did Nora.

She sat alone in her little apartment, snuggled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The TV hummed quietly in the background, some late-night talk show host cracking jokes to a crowd of no one. But Nora wasn't paying attention.

She was staring at the door.

Because someone had just knocked.

One firm, sharp knock. And then nothing.

Her heart pounded in her ears. Midnight was not visitor hours, especially when you lived alone in a building where no one ever knocked—where no one even really greeted each other. The tenants kept to themselves, drifting like ghosts down the corridor, only giving the briefest of nods when they met. It was the kind of building where privacy wasn't just respected—it was necessary.

Maybe it was a bad idea.

Maybe it was the wind.

She wrapped her fingers tighter around the blanket around her shoulders. It had to be the wind. A loose shutter, maybe. A branch against the side of the building. Something. Anything but the other one.

But then, another knock.

Louder.

More insistent.

Her throat tightened, and she sat frozen, her mind racing. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She swallowed hard. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, more oppressive, as though something unseen had just entered, filling every corner of the apartment. The quiet was no longer comforting; it was suffocating.

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, shivering—not from cold but from something else. Something she couldn't put her finger on.

"Who is it?" she whispered, hardly above a whisper, as if speaking louder would somehow make the dark presence outside more real.

Nothing.

Her hand trembled at her side, her fingers curling into fists, nails digging into her palms as if to remind herself she was still grounded in reality. But the world outside that door felt increasingly foreign, like a realm she wasn’t supposed to be in.

It was just the wind. Or a neighbor, maybe. Someone coming home late, not thinking about the time. The sensible part of her brain screamed for her to stay still, to ignore it, to pretend she hadn’t heard. But the rest of her—the part gripped by irrational fear—demanded she investigate. The part that remembered stories of the impossible, of things that came in the night and disappeared by dawn.

She stood, each step slow and deliberate, her socks silent on the hardwood floor. The apartment seemed darker now, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. The lamp in the corner flickered twice, its warm light turning cold.

She reached the door, her hand hovering over the handle. The door seemed to pulse beneath her touch, as if it, too, were holding its breath.

Don’t open it. Don’t open it.

The voice in her mind sounded like her mother’s. It was the kind of warning she'd given Nora since she was a child: always trust your instincts, and never open the door to strangers. But what if it wasn’t a stranger?

But what if it was?

She stepped closer to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. Nothing. No sound. No movement. She didn’t hear a breath, a shuffle, or even the faintest shift in the air. It was as if the world outside was holding its breath with her.

And then—just as she'd reached for the doorknob—

A voice.

Low. Intimate.

"Nora… it’s me."

Her breath caught in her throat.

It couldn’t be.

It was impossible.

The voice was one she'd buried three years before.

Her brother.

Ethan.

Nora’s legs nearly gave out beneath her. She grasped the edge of the couch, her pulse suddenly racing, her body cold with sweat despite the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that when she opened them, everything would return to normal.

But it didn’t.

She had witnessed Ethan’s funeral. She had stood at his graveside, feeling the earth fall away as they lowered him into the ground. She had watched his casket disappear beneath the weight of the world. She had endured three years of silence, of grief, of believing that some wounds never truly healed. And yet here he was, calling her name from the other side of the door.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. She had to be imagining things.

She couldn’t even fathom what it meant that the impossible was standing just beyond her door.

Her mind raced, but her body was frozen. The air outside the door felt thick, oppressive—like a weight pressing down on her chest.

“Ethan?” she whispered hoarsely. “This… this isn’t funny.”

Silence.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Maybe it was just a prank. Maybe someone had figured out her weakness, had come here to torment her. She should ignore it. Go back to the couch. Pretend like it wasn’t happening.

But then—

“I need you to open up.”

The voice was softer now, almost pleading, as though Ethan were desperate for her to understand. The finality of his words sent a chill through her, settling deep in her bones.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t him. Ethan was gone.

But her hand still moved.

Her fingers twitched above the door’s latch, uncertain, afraid, but strangely compelled. She didn’t want to open it, but something inside her wanted—needed—to know. She needed to know if it was him.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to turn the handle.

Another knock, louder this time, rattling the door in its frame. Nora jumped, her heart pounding in her chest. The air inside the apartment grew colder, her breath coming out in small clouds.

She forced her hand to steady itself, trying to hold onto reality.

The door creaked open just an inch.

Cold air rushed in, far colder than it should have been for a late spring night. It felt wrong. The darkness beyond the door was too thick, like it was absorbing the light from inside her apartment. The hallway was a void, its corners consumed by shadow.

And then she saw him.

Ethan.

Or at least, something that looked like him.

His face was the same—his dark hair, his eyes, his mouth—but everything about him was wrong. His skin was pale—too pale, almost translucent. His lips were stretched into a smile, but it wasn’t the kind of smile she remembered. It was twisted. The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by something darker—emptier. His eyes were hollow, like an empty shell. She could see the faintest red glow in the darkness around his pupils, like the eyes of a predator in the wild.

It couldn’t be him.

"Nora,” he whispered, his voice low and almost pleading. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to slam the door shut and run. But her legs felt like stone, her muscles locked in place. She didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t Ethan.

This couldn’t be Ethan.

Her hand was shaking now, still gripping the doorknob. “No. No, you’re not real.”

His smile faltered, the edges of his face growing strained, like it was being stretched. The air around her grew colder still, her breath visible in front of her, like she was standing in the middle of a snowstorm. She could feel the weight of his presence crushing her, pushing the very air out of her lungs.

“You’re not real,” she repeated, trying to convince herself, her throat dry and tight.

But then the air shifted. It thickened.

Ethan’s face twisted, the emptiness in his eyes darkening into something boundless. Something abyssal. Something that felt like it had no end.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was real enough to find you."

The door slammed shut.

Nora’s legs gave out. She staggered backward, gasping for breath, her chest tight as though an invisible hand was squeezing her heart.

Silence.

No knocks. No voice.

Nothing.

She stood there, trembling, her entire body vibrating with the adrenaline that coursed through her veins. Her mind screamed at her to move—to do something—but her limbs were frozen. She didn’t know how long she stood there, listening to the silence, straining to hear anything but the thumping of her own heart. She wanted to call out, to scream, but the words died in her throat.

And then, carefully, she turned the lock.

One.

Two.

Three.

She wasn’t leaving anything to fate.

Nora did not sleep that night.

She sat on the couch, curled into herself, waiting for the first rays of morning to chase away the shadows that filled her apartment. But when morning came, something was wrong.

The world outside was dead.

Too still.

She reached for her phone, her fingers numb from exhaustion. She checked the time.

12:00 AM.

Midnight.

Her stomach lurched.

This wasn’t possible. She had been awake for hours. The clock had moved. Hadn’t it?

She looked at the wall clock. Midnight. The microwave. Midnight. Her phone. Midnight.

The world had not moved forward.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Hard. Insistent.

Her heart froze. It was back. The knock. The voice.

And then, as though no time had passed—

“Nora… it’s me.”

The clock struck midnight, and the world held its breath.