All my life I have always done it. I was doing it from the days when I had begun walking and first started opening doors, apparenly; I always knock. And I don’t mean out of politeness for the person on the other side. I mean…I knock on every door even if the room on the other side is empty.
My mother ingrained this deeply in both me and my sister, Doris. I still remember going to school and being looked at strangely by the other kids every time I knocked on the restroom, classroom, or cafeteria doors. My sister and I looked at them strangely, too; Why the hell weren’t they knocking before going in like everyone else?
We continued our tradition even though we knew that we weren’t like everyone else. When I was in third grade someone finally asked me why I knocked every single time, on every single door. I didn’t have a legit answer for him, so I went to my mother with the same question.
“Momma, why do we knock every time before we go into a room?”
My mother, who looked older than her thirty-two years, glanced at me with ferocity in her eyes.
“Don’t question me, child! Don’t let those little hooligans at school get you into more trouble than you can possibly imagine. We knock because we must. That is all you need to know. Ask me that question again and see what happens.”
I didn’t ask that question again.
And so my sister and I adapted. We kept knocking, but we started to make a joke out of it. Eventually our classmates just came to accept it: Doris and I weren’t weirdos or pschopaths; We were just like everyone else, save for the knocking. And I hate to continue harping on, but when I say we did it without fail, we did it without fail. Sleepy and wandering to the bathroom late at night? Knock knock. Sixteen and drunk at a party, leading a girl to the bedroom about to get laid for the first time? Knock knock. It was as common as moving one step in front of the other. Something we would never forget.
I met a girl named Perla in college and fell in love. We married and a couple of years later had our first child, a girl we named Dorothy. I remember my mother being as enthused and ecstatic as any other grandmother; Then came the day when she saw Dorothy walking for the first time. Her eyes weren’t full of excitement or glee as I would have expected. No, instead she looked concerned.
“Derwin…I want you to start teaching my little angel to knock on doors.”
Anyone else would have laughed. Thought that maybe she was joking. But not me. Not knowing how I had been raised or how seriously my mother took knocking.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I will.”
“I’m serious, Derwin.” Her eyes were bearing into mine. The intensity made me desperately uncomfortable. What the hell did she believe would happen if we didn’t knock?
I began researching the concept of knocking on doors. I looked into superstitions but couldn’t quite find anything that fit my mother’s tradition. I began to suspect that my mother was paranoid, maybe even mentally ill, and I called Doris about it.
“That’s just mom, Derwin, don’t dwell on it. She won’t know if Dorothy is knocking on doors or not since she doesn’t live with you.”
“Maybe not at my place, but what about when I take her to mom’s to visit?”
“Don’t worry about it. Dorothy is your daughter, not mom’s, and you can raise her however you like.”
I wish I could have been so carefree about it as my sister. But as Dorothy grew taller, I knew the time was coming. She was finally able to reach the doorknob.
My mother came to visit us one evening. We had dinner and as Perla was washing the dishes, mom watched Dorothy wander around the livingroom.
“She is something else, Derwin…you have taught her to knock, right?”
I knew this was coming, and had my speech ready.
“Mom, listen. I’m glad you raised me the way you did, but-“
“DOROTHY!”
My daughter was standing with her hand on the doorknob to the bathroom. My mother dashed across the livingroom, the fastest I’ve ever seen her move, and grabbed Dorothy before she could twist the knob. She fell to the floor with my daughter in her arms as Perla ran up, looking startled.
“Really? What’s going on in here?”
“Mom, hand her to me!” I declared angrily. Enough was enough. I took my daughter and looked down at my mother, who slowly rose to her feet, tears rolling down her face.
“Derwin son you have to listen to me! She must knock, just like you and your sister!”
” Why, Mom? Tell me why and I promise, I promise I will teach her to do it.”
My mother stared at me, seemingly lost for words. She opened her mouth but closed it again, shaking her head as she closed her eyes. My anger had gotten the better of me, and I decided that I would prove a point. For the first time in my life, I was going to open a door without knocking.
“Mom, you have nothing to be afraid of! And today I’m going to prove it to you!”
I reached for the doorknob and clasped it. Before I could turn it, however, my mother pushed me aside, her face still wet as she looked at my daughter.
“No…I will prove it to you…”
What happened next will haunt me till my last day.
My mother opened the door. It wasn’t even fully open before a long, clawed, inhuman gray hand sprung forth like a snake striking it’s prey. It seized my mother by her face and yanked her violently into the room. The door slammed behind her as my daughter burst into tears and, behind me, my wife fainted.
I was dazed; Nothing made sense in that moment. Once the initial shock subsided, I dashed to my feet and ran up to the door, intent on rescuing my mother. Before I opened it, however, the instinct to knock kicked it, more urgently than ever before. I paused for a second, putting my ear against the door. There was silence on the other side. I knocked, just once, and then pushed it open.
The bathroom was just that: A bathroom. There was no blood, no monster, no otherworld, and no mother. I threw aside the shower curtains and checked every inch of the room. Then I stepped out, closed the door, knocked, and opened it again.
I can hardly bring myself to look at the bathroom door anymore. I avoid that room at all times now, only using the one upstairs. I’m sorry there’s no dramatic reveal or resolution in this story. But I want my mother back, and I think about her sacrifice…what could have possibly become of her…to this day. And I put every ounce of my being into making sure my daughter knocks every time.
Pt.2: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/axvjc4/my_mom_made_us_knock_before_we_entered_every_room/