The most unsettling part of the story wasn’t the incessant knocking that started every night at exactly 3:03 AM. It was the fact that, on the third night, I found a note under my door during one of these episodes, written in jagged handwriting: “Why won’t you let me in?”
I had just moved into an old, rundown apartment in a part of the city that even the city seemed to have forgotten. The rent was suspiciously cheap, the walls were thin, and the floorboards creaked with every step. But it was what I could afford, and the desperation of needing a place overruled my better judgment.
The first few days were uneventful, filled with the mundane tasks of unpacking and settling in. However, it wasn’t long before the peculiarities of the apartment began to reveal themselves. It started with the strange feeling of being watched, a sensation that crept up my spine whenever I was home. I chalked it up to the new environment and my imagination running wild.
Then, the knocking began. The first night, I thought it was a neighbor, perhaps complaining about the noise of me getting settled. But when I checked the peephole, no one was there. The corridor was empty, the silence of the building almost oppressive. The knocking persisted for exactly one minute before stopping as suddenly as it had started.
By the third night, the routine was familiar, but the discovery of the note under my door after the knocking ceased was new—and horrifying. The message was clear, but the intention behind it was a mystery that sent waves of fear through me. I spent the rest of the night with all the lights on, jumping at every sound.
The following days were a blur of paranoia. I reached out to the landlord, inquiring about the previous tenant and any history of complaints similar to my experiences. The landlord’s evasive answers only fueled my anxiety. He claimed ignorance of any past incidents and seemed more annoyed than concerned by my questions.
My attempts to engage with my neighbors were met with cold shoulders and tight-lipped smiles. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement to remain silent about whatever was happening in the building. The isolation only deepened my fear.
The knocking continued, each night exactly at 3:03 AM, each episode lasting one minute, no more, no less. I began to research the history of the building, desperate for answers, but found nothing of note. It was as if the building, and my experiences within it, existed in a vacuum, disconnected from the rest of the world.
Then, one night, the pattern changed. The knocking started as usual, but this time, when it ceased, the silence that followed was more oppressive than ever. As I braced myself for another sleepless night, a new sound pierced the silence—a low, guttural whisper coming from the other side of my door, calling my name, elongating each syllable in a way that made my blood run cold.
I realized then that whatever was haunting me was not going to be satisfied with mere knocking. And as I stood frozen in fear, the whispering intensified, promising that this was only the beginning.