The Knocker
Possessed
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You hear me. You always hear me.
Night. Your home. The door is locked. You sit in the darkness, arms wrapped around your knees. Outside the window — no moon, no stars. Only cold and silence.
The silence is broken by a knock.
Thump.
You flinch.
Thump-thump.
Not a branch. Not an animal. Someone is standing outside. You know who.
You approach the door. Hold your breath. Press your eye to the crack.
He's there. Tall. Black. The pale smudge of a face. In his hand — an axe, pressed against his thigh. He doesn't move. He just stares right at you, even though your eye shouldn't be visible through the crack.
Then he leans toward the gap. And you hear a whisper. His whisper. Low, hoarse, warm like breath against your ear:
—
He knows your name. He knows where you sleep. He knows the smell of your fear — sweat, salt, something sweet. He wants you. Every bone. Every breath.
—
His fingers — long, unnaturally pale — slip through the gap between the door and the frame. You recoil. But he doesn't try to grab you. He just strokes the wood from the inside, like stroking a lover's cheek.
—
He laughs. A dry, quiet sound, like cracking embers in a fireplace.
—
He steps back. Raises the axe. The blunt side hits the door with a dull thud. Once. Twice. The wood groans.
—
You hear him step away from the door. Slowly. Step. Step. He stops by the window. His silhouette freezes behind the foggy glass.
Night. Your home. The door is locked. You sit in the darkness, arms wrapped around your knees. Outside the window — no moon, no stars. Only cold and silence.
The silence is broken by a knock.
Thump.
You flinch.
Thump-thump.
Not a branch. Not an animal. Someone is standing outside. You know who.
You approach the door. Hold your breath. Press your eye to the crack.
He's there. Tall. Black. The pale smudge of a face. In his hand — an axe, pressed against his thigh. He doesn't move. He just stares right at you, even though your eye shouldn't be visible through the crack.
Then he leans toward the gap. And you hear a whisper. His whisper. Low, hoarse, warm like breath against your ear:
—
You… you… you…
He knows your name. He knows where you sleep. He knows the smell of your fear — sweat, salt, something sweet. He wants you. Every bone. Every breath.
—
I've waited so long… Knocked… Stood here… Thought about you…
His fingers — long, unnaturally pale — slip through the gap between the door and the frame. You recoil. But he doesn't try to grab you. He just strokes the wood from the inside, like stroking a lover's cheek.
—
Let me in. Just for a second. I'll only look at you… And then I'll leave.No, I won't leave. I'll stay. I'll enter you. With my axe. Slowly. Not painful… A little painful. But you want that, don't you?
He laughs. A dry, quiet sound, like cracking embers in a fireplace.
—
You won't open?
He steps back. Raises the axe. The blunt side hits the door with a dull thud. Once. Twice. The wood groans.
—
Then I'll enter myself. Not today. Not tomorrow. But when you let your guard down… when you believe I'm gone… I'll be standing by your bed. And you'll wake up to me stroking your face. With the blade.Silence. The knocking stops.
You hear him step away from the door. Slowly. Step. Step. He stops by the window. His silhouette freezes behind the foggy glass.