The One Who Comes Knocking

I know he’ll come knocking again.

He always does.

Every night.

No exceptions. He always comes knocking on my door. Banging fiercely and making it shake my home.

I never-under any circumstances-go down to check what he wants. I do wonder though. I wonder every night he comes knocking at my door.

I stare at the ceiling, white and pristine from being painted only a few days ago. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough money to spend on expensive paint, so that chemical paint smell fills my lungs and the air around me.

I pick up my phone and check the time. 9:50. He’s going to come knocking in ten minutes.

I take a deep breath and clench my fists at my sides and wait patiently hoping-no praying-that he’ll not come knocking once more.

I know he’s a he. He once spoke loud as though he was the thunder in the sky, loud enough that you could say the whole world heard his resonating voice. He said, “Come, be brave, ask the question you dare to ask.” I shudder at the thought. I remember texting Sarah frantically and telling her of the knocking and what he said. She just told me to get some sleep, I mean after working late shifts at the hospital, she had a point.

I text Diana and Sarah in our group chat.

Me: He’s not knocked yet. Sorry, but I’m sure you would be worried too, despite how you say your brave and all that nonsense.

It takes a moment for her to reply and I almost hear the irritation in her voice that emanates from her words.

Sarah: YOU NEED TO GET SLEEP! Diana tell me you agree with me!

Sarah you realize that she’s just going to say I have PTSD like always.

Diana: I agree with Sarah in some ways. But let’s be honest. Maybe you have PTSD or something. Likely. After being in…a war zone as a kid.

I roll my eyes and take a deep breath, but then cough when too much of that chemical goes into my lungs at one time. I begin to type.

Me: Diana, I do not have PTSD. You know that. I already called the police and, of course, they thought I was imagining it and told me that I must have PTSD. For the record…I DO NOT!

Sarah sends a video with laughing emojis almost immediately after I sent my message. I watch it. It was about a man who had PTSD and heard knocking at night. Not funny.

Diana: Sarah, I really don’t think that is very funny for her. She may have PTSD and making fun of it is not nice. We should be supportive and more understanding. And that video is a bit much.

Sarah: OK…Have you guys read the new book! It’s called Order of the Slain!

I sigh and take a deep breath and close my eyes. I begin to type.

Me: Diana I really do thank you for being supportive…in a way. And, Sarah, why have you got be such a di-

I stop typing. I listen and hear the knocking echoing through the house, as though it was coming straight from the walls. I drop my phone, it lands on my quilt and I hear my heart thunder loudly in my ears. I press a hand to my chest feeling its repeated movements.

And they say I’ve got PTSD. I have not. I have heard this endlessly for two years. Two years. They have no idea what it’s like to feel so…so weird, so abnormal. Or to put it plainly, so crazy.

I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut trying to do the same to my ears, but I think I made it worse. The knocking seems to get more quicker, more harsher.

I need to know who’s knocking. I need to know. I’ve had enough of being called crazy. I’m going to prove the knocker exists.

I grab my phone and grip it tightly. Although what good is it going to do me really? It’s not like I’ll be fast enough to text or call if something happens.

I take another deep breath and hold it whilst I walk and open my door. Immediately, the knocking grows louder and more urgent. My heart beats like my life was on the tip of a knife and one wrong move might end it in a heartbeat.

I walk down the stairs. They creak only making my heart beat all the more. I keep my breath in my lungs, holding it like it might be my last. It is rather fitting that the first thing you do when you are born is breath. And the very last thing everyone-no matter how they die-is the same. We breathe in our first breath, and soon we will breathe out our last.

I grip the banister and finally make it to the hallway. I see the door, its see-through glass making me see a figure silhouetted by the moon. Well, at least he is in a way there. But could it all be a figment of my imagination? No. I am not lunatic.

I take a step forward, the knocking now thrumming in my ears blocking out any other noise at all.

“Come on,” I assure myself calmly as I take a another slow step towards the door. “You can do this. But then again, how am I going to prove that he’s there? Every night. I’ll figure that out at a later date.” I stop walking and run my thumb along the rim of my phone feeling the volume buttons that protrude out.

What if I take a picture? Maybe they’ll believe me then.

I lift my phone, only a few feet away from the door, and take a picture. I let out my held breath when I hear groaning come from the door.

I rush up the stairs with speed I never thought I had. I place my phone on my chest and lock my bedroom door with a click.

I feel almost frozen with fear as I throw the quilt around me and send the image. But when I send it, I look at it and only see the door. What? No! I…I saw it. I heard it!

Sarah sends a message repeating the ‘Get some sleep!’ message. Diana sends a GIF of a man saying, ‘It’s okay, I’m here for you.”

I place my phone on my bedside table and try to stay calm. But the knocking persists.

I lay down covering my ears with my pillows, and try to mute the endless knocking that is now being accompanied by groaning.

Somehow, someway I finally feel myself drift into a state of unconsciousness.

I wake up gasping for air and hear my beeping alarm, blaring like a siren and almost falling onto the floor. I press the stop button a little to hard, sending my phone crashing to the floor.

I get out of my bed with a groan and hear nothing but a tree rustling and birds chirping their awakening calls. No knocking. As usual thankfully.

I remember the day and just shake my head. I have to stay late at work today. Yippee!

I get dressed and drive to the hospital, right when I enter I am already told what patients I have to attend to. I sigh and take the clipboard. I ride the lift.

The lift chimes as it stops and I step out and look for room A45.

I open the door and see a man, his broken leg hanging in bandages in the air and a wrapped up forehead.

“Are you in an alright condition to answer a few questions,” I ask politely as the man looks up at me with an almost tired face.

“Do I look like I can answer some weird Latin questi-”

“Nobody said they were in Latin. Just plain English,” I interrupt him quickly but something in his demeanor shifts and soon his face contorts to a sinister grin which puts me on edge.

“You hear knocking, don’t you,” He quickly asks awaiting my response. My heart beats. How does he know about that?

“W-What are you talking about,” I answer with a quick look to my clipboard. Nothing stating he’s is a psychic, then again if he was would they bother putting that on there?

“You know what I am talking about. Do you know who comes knocking?” I freeze in place at his words, my head now turning into a spiral of thoughts twisting into images.

“I…I don’t. Do you know,” I ask not expecting an answer at all. And yet he answers clear as though in no pain at all, “I do. But you must find that out for yourself, I am plagued by the same thing you are.”

I begin to retreat to the exit my heart racing and just ticking anything on the clipboard about him and his condition status.

I quickly try to get to the next patient without thinking of all the things he said. Plagued by the same thing? Does he have a knocker?

I get through the day. So slow and boring. Until I remember that I’ve been put on for a rather late shift.

I check my phone and see that there are still two hours left. I want answers. I check my clipboard and decide I have enough time. I take the lift and break through the door and see that he is gone. No! Ugh why? Why am I so unlucky?

I check the next patient and head there. The hours feel like days when you have to listen to your patients talking so haphazardly.

I get home and see that he’ll already be knocking soon. Maybe I should just stay. Wait for him to knock. I decide to go with it and sit at my front door like an idiot.

The hour ticks by and whilst playing with my fingers and reciting a poem the knocking comes. I steel myself and grip the door handle that is abnormally cold.

I take a breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I pull the door open. I feel a gust of wind blow at my face. I open my eyes slowly.

I see the knocker.

He is almost transparent his clothes of white ripped and barely visible like the rest of him. I see gashes in his chest and an a eye out of its socket and replaced by a grotesque gash revealing flesh that looks so dead.

I scream almost reflexively. The man outstretches a thin hand towards me as though to stop me screaming.

“Finally. You finally answered,” I hear him say his words dragged on to long to be normal. It sounds like an audible book on speed 0.5.

“Why do you come knocking,” I shout my voice probably could be heard from a mile away. He grins and shows decayed teeth, black with rot.

“Because I must. Just as my predecessor did to your mother.” Sorry what?

My breaths come out in short gasps and I shake my head.

“I’m so confused! Speak clearly what do you mean predecessor and my mother was plagued by a knocker?” I frown and rub my brow in confusion. He begins to speak, “My predecessor was like me. A ghost you could say. But to put it simply and plainly your mothers family line of daughters are always plagued by us knockers. They did not chose it. They gained it. Us knockers call it a privilege. It means that you have a place in the afterlife, but only if you answer our never relenting knocking.” He stops and stares down lifting my chin with a toothy grin. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop though. Anyway, you understand, yes? There are more of us. Many more who plague family lines, daughters, sons, whatever. You aren’t alone.”

I shake my head at all this new found knowledge. So is the man I met at the hospital plagued by a knocker?

“This time I will want you to do something…else. You may think that answering the door was hard. You have yet to experience the greatness and the downfalls to us knockers’.” He stops. My heart races. I step back from the door and hear him say slowly, “See you soon.” He finishes with a laugh that sends shivers down my spine. He closes the door and I hear it lock with a click.

My eyes dart around the place. I run up to my bedroom. My heart racing I hide under my quilt like a little child. I don’t have a clue what he wants me to do this time. I’m worried but I know…

I know he’ll come knocking again.