Polite Knocking from the Dead

I’m thirty years old. I live alone. So when I heard my mum call my name

from downstairs… I froze. She died three years ago. I told myself it

was stress. Lack of sleep. Grief doing strange things to the mind. Then my phone vibrated.

A voicemail. No number. Just static… and her voice, whispering:

“I’m still here.” The lights in the hallway flicked off. Slow footsteps started

moving toward the stairs. I locked my bedroom door. Held my breath.

And that’s when something knocked. Not angry. Not loud. Polite.

Like it knew I was listening.