The Fourth Knock

I moved into my grandma’s house a week after the funeral. Everyone warned

me about the knocking. “It’s just the pipes,” my uncle said too quickly. “Old houses make

noise.” The first night, around 2:17 a.m., three slow knocks echoed from my bedroom

door. Knock. Knock. Knock. I froze.

The house was silent otherwise—no footsteps, no breathing. I stared at the door until sunrise,

convincing myself I’d imagined it. The second night, the knocking came again.

Same time. Same rhythm. This time, I whispered, “Hello?”

Nothing answered. But when I opened the door, the hallway light was on.