Audio Podcast 8 1/2 minutes

When Clara moved into the old duplex on Sycamore Street, she felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation. The landlord, an elderly gentleman with a knowing smile and twinkling eyes, gave her one important rule: “Never open the door after the third knock.” He didn’t elaborate further, but Clara could sense an underlying weight to his words, as if they held secrets tightly bound to the history of the house. Each time she heard a knock echoing through the hardwood floors late at night, she was reminded of his warning, stirring a curiosity that battled with her instincts to heed his advice. As the days passed, the duplex began to feel both inviting and ominous, a place where shadows flickered just out of sight, and the air crackled with unspoken stories waiting to unfold.

She laughed at the time, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit room. The place was cheap, the neighborhood quiet, and the rule sounded like the kind of local superstition that came with creaky floorboards and drafty windows, whispers of tales hidden within the walls. It was the sort of belief that made the timid hesitate and the skeptical roll their eyes in disdain. With an adventurous spirit and a hint of rebellion, she signed the lease anyway, convinced that the charm of rustic living and the allure of mystery would outweigh any ghostly encounters lurking in the shadows. After all, every home held its secrets, and she was ready to uncover them.

The first night passed uneventfully. The second, she heard it—three knocks at 2:13 a.m. Sharp. Not loud, not frantic. Just… deliberate.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She froze in bed, heart hammering against her ribs as she strained to hear even the faintest sound. No footsteps echoed in the hallway. No voice called out to her, offering reassurance or inviting her to respond. Just silence enveloped the room after the third knock, heavy and foreboding. The darkness felt suffocating, and her mind raced with possibilities. She didn’t open the door, paralyzed by a mix of fear and curiosity, wondering who could be on the other side and why they would come at this late hour.

The next morning, she asked her neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Ellison, about it. The woman’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “You heard it already?” she whispered, glancing nervously around as though the walls themselves might be listening. “It usually waits a week before it shows itself,” she added, her voice trembling slightly. The weight of unspoken words hung between them, and the atmosphere felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as Mrs. Ellison’s hands wrung a faded shawl tightly in her lap, revealing the depth of her concern.

Clara pressed for more, her curiosity bubbling over, but Mrs. Ellison only muttered, with a distant look in her eyes, “It’s not a person. It’s a promise.” The weight of those words lingered in the air, thick with unspoken truths, as Clara tried to decipher their meaning. What kind of promise could hold such significance? There was a palpable tension that filled the room, as if the very walls were guarding secrets that had long been tucked away, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

That night, Clara stayed up, phone in hand, determined to record it. At 2:13 a.m., it came again.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She crept to the door and peered through the peephole, her heart racing with anticipation and fear. No one was there. Just the porch light flickering irregularly, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls of the dimly lit hallway. She held her breath, straining to hear any sound outside, hoping for a sign that she was not alone, but only the faint rustling of leaves reached her ears, deepening her unease.

She posted the audio online, eager to share her excitement with the world. However, to her dismay, people began to say it was fake, dismissing her efforts before even listening fully. One user, seemingly concerned, messaged her privately: “Don’t open it. Not even a crack. It learns your voice.” This cryptic warning sent a chill down her spine, making her question the very nature of what she had uploaded and the implications it might have for her safety and privacy. Uncertain of what to do next, she pondered over the mysterious message, her mind racing with possibilities of what the audio could truly represent and who might be watching.

On the fourth night, the knocks came earlier—1:47 a.m.—and louder.

KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.

She screamed, “Go away!” and the knocking stopped abruptly, echoing in the silence that followed. But the next morning, her front doormat was gone, vanished without a trace. In its place: a small, wet footprint imprinted in the mud, its details unmistakably distinct. Bare. Child-sized, as if a small child had innocently wandered onto her porch during the night, leaving behind a hint of mystery that sent chills down her spine. The air felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as she scanned the surroundings, half-expecting to see a figure lurking just beyond her line of sight, hidden among the shadows of the early morning light.

By the sixth night, she was sleeping with the lights on, the soft glow casting long shadows across her room. The knocks came at 12:03 a.m. this time, precise and unsettling, echoing through the silence of the house. Heart pounding in her chest, she lay frozen in bed, listening intently. After the third knock, a chill ran down her spine as she heard a whisper through the door, thin and eerie, like a breath carried on the wind. It seemed to call her name, weaving an unsettling spell that wrapped around her thoughts, compelling her to confront whatever lay beyond the threshold. Doubt and fear clashed within her, leaving her torn between the safety of her sanctuary and the inexplicable pull of the unknown.

“Clara…”

She hadn’t told anyone her name.

She moved a chair under the doorknob to secure the door and called the landlord, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer, leaving her feeling increasingly anxious and alone. With her heart racing, she decided to call the police for assistance, hoping they would be able to bring her some peace of mind. When the officers arrived, they carefully canvassed the apartment, finding no prints, no signs of forced entry, which only deepened her sense of unease. But as the officer paused before leaving, a concerned look crossed his face, and he turned back to her, as if sensing the gravity of her fear and uncertainty.

“You’re in 3B, right?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and concern. “That’s the unit where the girl disappeared last year, you know. Same story as before – strange sounds echoing in the night, whispers of something lurking just beyond the walls. They said she reported hearing persistent knocks, like someone was trying to get her attention. Then, one fateful night, in a moment of brave foolishness or perhaps sheer desperation, she opened the door, seeking answers to the unsettling mystery that surrounded her.”

Clara didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the hallway, staring at the door, knife in hand.

At 11:59 p.m., the first knock came.

KNOCK.

She held her breath.

KNOCK.

The doorknob twitched.

KNOCK.

She screamed, her voice echoing through the dimly lit hallway. But this time, the door creaked open—just a sliver, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond that seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. She hadn’t touched it, her heart racing in her chest as she felt a chill crawl down her spine, the air thick with tension as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for what might come next.

A hand, pale and too long, reached through the gap, its fingers stretching out like brittle vines in search of something unseen, curling as if beckoning the darkness closer, while the remnants of a cold breeze whispered eerie secrets around it, reminding one that every shadow held a story waiting to be unearthed.

She slammed the door shut, locked it, and ran to the bedroom, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. But the window was open, flapping slightly in the cool night air. She hadn’t opened it; the last thing she remembered was ensuring everything was securely closed before the unsettling noises had started. Now, she hesitated, caught between the urge to escape and the instinct to investigate the peculiar situation that had crept into her once safe haven.

The last thing she saw before the lights went out was a small, wet footprint on her pillow.

What happened after that? Let your imagination run wild.