The Knocking:
I always believed the worst danger came from what you could see. That belief crumbled one cold October evening, three years ago. What I experienced was no ghost story—it was flesh and blood, human terror.
I was 29, living in a quiet neighborhood just outside the city. It wasn’t perfect, but I felt safe enough. I rented a small one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor, with a patio that opened to a dimly lit parking lot. That patio door—I’d always considered it my window to the world. That night, it became my window to hell.
It started as an ordinary evening. I’d just returned from a long day at work, exhausted. The office had been stressful, filled with meetings and deadlines that seemed to multiply by the minute. After a quick dinner of reheated pasta, I settled into the couch with a blanket and some mindless TV. The room was dark except for the glow of the screen, and outside, the wind howled through the trees. Autumn always had a way of making everything feel lonelier. The rustling leaves sounded like whispers, as if the world itself were trying to tell me something I couldn't understand.
Around 9 PM, I heard it for the first time: a faint, rhythmic tapping. I muted the TV and sat still. The sound was soft, almost polite, coming from the patio door. My heart picked up, but I brushed it off. Maybe a branch was hitting the glass, I thought. My gaze drifted to the door, half-hidden by the curtains, the yellowish light outside casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.
But when I approached the door, I saw nothing outside—no tree branches, no shadows. I flipped the patio light on, and the bulb buzzed weakly before casting a yellowish glow over the empty parking lot. Nobody was there. Still, I locked the door and closed the curtains, the metallic click of the lock echoing in my ears. I tried to dismiss it as my imagination playing tricks on me, but a strange tension settled in my chest, like I was being watched.
About an hour later, the tapping came back. Louder this time, more insistent. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Four deliberate knocks. My skin prickled. I crept to the door again, but this time I stayed back, peeking through a gap in the curtains. And that’s when I saw him.
A man stood just outside the glass, barely visible in the dim light. He wore dark clothes, a hood pulled low over his face. I could only make out the rough outline of his features, but his stance—too still, too patient—sent a chill down my spine. He raised a hand and tapped again. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
I froze. My mind raced through possibilities. Maybe he was a neighbor who needed help? Or a delivery person at the wrong address? But deep down, I knew neither was true. Something about the way he stood, so calculated, so quiet, felt wrong. His posture was rigid, and there was a sense of purpose in the way he moved—as if every action was deliberate.
“Who is it?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. No answer. Just more tapping. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
My pulse thundered as I backed away, grabbing my phone from the couch. I dialed 911 and whispered to the operator, explaining the situation. Her voice, calm and detached, made my heart pound harder. She assured me that an officer was on the way and told me to stay inside, keep the doors locked. I was already steps ahead of her, pressing my back against the wall, the cold metal of the phone slick with sweat.
Minutes dragged by like hours. The room seemed to shrink, the space around me tightening as if I were being suffocated. I stayed on the line, crouched behind my coffee table, listening as the tapping stopped and started again, each time growing more erratic. At one point, I heard the faint crunch of gravel underfoot. He was moving. The thought of him circling my apartment, looking for another way in, made me feel sick.
Then came the sound that nearly broke me: the jingle of my doorknob. He was trying to get inside.
“He’s at the door,” I whispered into the phone, my voice trembling. The operator’s calm voice urged me to stay hidden, to wait for the police. I clutched a kitchen knife, my only weapon, and stared at the locked front door, willing it to hold. The blade felt flimsy in my grasp, a poor match for whatever lay on the other side.
Suddenly, the noise stopped. Silence pressed in, so complete it felt suffocating. Even the wind outside had died down. I held my breath, straining to hear any hint of movement. Nothing. Had he given up? Was he gone? My pulse slowed, but I couldn’t relax. The tension coiled tighter, waiting for the next shock.
I was still on edge when red and blue lights flashed through the curtains. The police had arrived. My hands shook as I unlocked the door and practically fell into the arms of the first officer I saw. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room as he asked if I was okay. I nodded, unable to find words. They searched the area but found no sign of the man. No footprints, no broken locks. Nothing. The patio light hummed softly, casting long, jittery shadows that seemed to dance across the floor, mocking my fear.
The officers assured me they’d patrol the neighborhood through the night, but their reassurances felt hollow. How could they protect me from someone who’d already vanished without a trace? The man had been so close, so deliberate. He had been watching me—I was sure of it.
For weeks after, I barely slept. Every creak of the building made my heart leap. I installed extra locks, security cameras, even moved a heavy bookshelf in front of the patio door. I avoided looking out the windows, afraid I might see him lurking just beyond the glass. The nights felt longer, each one stretching into an eternity. I would wake to the smallest sounds: the rattle of leaves, a distant car horn, my own breath shuddering in the dark.
The fear lingered. Who was he? What did he want? I’ll never know. But I do know this: the scariest monsters aren’t the ones we imagine. They’re the ones standing just outside our door.
The Stalker:
It happened five years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The sheer terror of that night still grips me, making my heart race and my palms sweat whenever I think about it. I was 25 at the time, living in a small apartment on the edge of the city. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it was affordable and close to my job. I thought I’d be fine—after all, nothing bad had ever happened to me before.
That night, I was working late at the office. I’d recently been promoted, and I wanted to prove myself. By the time I finally decided to pack up and leave, it was well past 10 PM. The office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak and shuffle. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to move on their own. I grabbed my bag and headed to the parking lot.
The lot was almost empty, just a few scattered cars under dim streetlights. My car was parked in the far corner, away from the main entrance. As I walked toward it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I glanced over my shoulder, but the lot appeared empty. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my footsteps seemed unnaturally loud against the asphalt.
I reached my car and unlocked it, quickly sliding into the driver’s seat. As I started the engine, I noticed something in my rearview mirror. A man was standing at the far edge of the lot, near the exit. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there, watching. His face was partially hidden under a hoodie, but I could feel his eyes on me, sharp and unblinking like a predator sizing up its prey.
I told myself I was being paranoid. Maybe he was just waiting for someone or catching a ride. I pulled out of the lot and onto the main road, trying to shake the unease that clung to me. The man didn’t move, but I couldn’t forget his presence.
As I drove, I noticed headlights in my mirror. A car had pulled out of the lot just after me and was now following me. At first, I told myself it was a coincidence. Maybe they lived nearby, heading in the same direction. But when I turned onto a side street, the car followed. My pulse quickened. I made another turn, then another. Each time, the car stayed with me, its headlights like twin eyes boring into my back.
Panic began to rise in my chest. I tried to convince myself I was imagining things, but deep down, I knew something was wrong. My stomach knotted as I decided to test my theory. I made an abrupt turn onto a random street, one that didn’t lead to my apartment. The car followed.
Now I was certain. Someone was following me. My mind raced, flipping through options like pages in a book. Should I call the police? Drive to a station? What if they tried to stop me before I got there? My hands trembled as I gripped the wheel tighter, the cool leather slippery with sweat.
I remembered there was a 24-hour convenience store a few miles away. It was brightly lit and usually busy, even at night. I decided to head there, hoping the presence of other people would deter whoever was following me.
The drive felt endless. My breath came in shallow gasps as I checked my mirrors constantly, the car’s headlights unwavering. I kept to main roads, avoiding dark alleys and quiet neighborhoods. When I finally pulled into the store’s parking lot, I parked as close to the entrance as I could. The other car pulled in a few spaces away, its engine idling ominously.
My heart was pounding as I grabbed my phone and got out of the car. The air felt thick and suffocating. I walked quickly into the store, the harsh fluorescent lights almost blinding after the darkness outside. The faint smell of cleaning chemicals mixed with stale coffee made my stomach churn. I pretended to browse the aisles, keeping an eye on the door.
A few minutes later, the man from the parking lot entered. It was the same guy who’d been standing near the exit earlier. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet. He just stood near the entrance, watching me. His presence was suffocating, an unspoken threat that hung in the air like a storm about to break.
I felt trapped, like an animal in a cage. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what to do. I decided to approach the cashier, a middle-aged man with kind eyes who seemed oblivious to the tension. I leaned in and whispered, “That guy over there is following me. Can you help me?”
The cashier’s eyes darted to the man and back to me. His face hardened, and he nodded subtly. “Stay here,” he said, reaching for the phone under the counter. His calmness was reassuring, but it didn’t erase the dread coiled in my chest.
The man must have realized something was up because he suddenly turned and walked out of the store. I watched through the window as he got into his car and drove away, his taillights disappearing into the night. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. What if he was waiting for me to leave? What if he came back?
The cashier offered to call the police, but I hesitated. What would I even tell them? The man hadn’t done anything illegal. He’d just… followed me. Still, the thought of going back outside alone was terrifying. The cashier must have seen the fear in my eyes because he offered to let me stay in the store until I felt safe.
I stayed there for nearly an hour, pretending to shop but really just stalling. Every time the automatic doors slid open, I jumped, expecting to see the man walk back in. The minutes stretched into eternity, my nerves fraying with each passing second.
When I finally worked up the courage to leave, I asked the cashier to watch me walk to my car. He agreed, standing by the door as I made my way across the lot. The silence outside was deafening, every sound amplified in my heightened state of fear. My keys jingled in my shaking hands as I unlocked the door and slid inside. The cashier gave me a small wave before disappearing back into the store.
I drove home with my heart in my throat, constantly checking my mirrors for any sign of the car. My knuckles were white against the steering wheel, and every shadow on the road felt like a threat. Thankfully, I didn’t see the car again.
To this day, I don’t know who that man was or what he wanted. Maybe he was just messing with me, or maybe he had something far more sinister in mind. All I know is that I’ll never forget the fear of that night. It changed me. Now, I’m always cautious, always looking over my shoulder. Because sometimes, the real monsters aren’t hiding under your bed—they’re out there, in the real world, watching and waiting.
The Doctor:
I was just a regular guy, a night-shift orderly at Riverview General Hospital. My life was a routine of quiet hallways, the low hum of medical equipment, and the occasional chaos of an emergency. It was a steady rhythm I had grown used to. But one night shattered that calm, and I’ve never been the same since.
It started like any other shift. I was making my rounds, checking on supplies, and ensuring the wards were in order. The quiet was comforting, almost soothing, as I moved through the dimly lit corridors. But as I passed the storage room near the psychiatric wing, I heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper. It was unsettling, like someone murmuring just out of reach. No one was supposed to be in there at this hour.
I hesitated for a moment, then grabbed my flashlight. Patients sometimes wandered, confused or sleepwalking. I figured it was just one of those moments. The door creaked loudly as I pushed it open, the sound echoing through the hallway. The room was cloaked in darkness, its shelves casting long, jagged shadows.
The beam of my flashlight cut through the gloom, scanning the shelves stacked with medical supplies. At first, there was nothing, just the sterile smell of alcohol and latex gloves. Then, in the farthest corner, I saw it—a figure crouched low, eyes reflecting the light like a cat’s. My breath hitched. It was a man, his expression wild and unhinged, like an animal backed into a corner.
“Who’s there?” I called, my voice firmer than I felt.
The figure shifted, and I recognized him: Ryan Dempsey, a patient who had escaped from the psychiatric ward earlier that evening. Ryan was infamous among the staff for his volatile episodes. He had been admitted after a violent altercation, though the details were always whispered in hushed tones.
“They don’t understand,” Ryan said, his voice trembling yet urgent. “They’re trying to hurt me.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine. I stepped closer, against my better judgment, trying to project calm. “Ryan, no one’s trying to hurt you. Let’s get you back to your room, okay?”
His eyes darted past me, focusing on something invisible, something only he could see. “They’re here,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They’re always here.”
I felt the air grow heavy, the room pressing in on me. I instinctively reached for my radio to call security. But before I could speak, Ryan lunged. He moved with a speed and ferocity that caught me completely off guard. His hands clawed at the air, his screams raw and guttural. I stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding his grasp.
Heart pounding, I turned and ran, my shoes skidding on the polished floor. Behind me, Ryan’s footsteps pounded closer. Panic surged as I glanced back, his silhouette closing the distance. My foot caught on a stray cart, and I went sprawling. Pain shot through my knee as I hit the ground.
I scrambled to my feet, my hand fumbling for the nearest door. It opened into a small supply closet. I dove inside, slamming the door shut and locking it from within. My chest heaved as I pressed my ear against the door, listening to his approach.
The pounding started moments later, so loud it felt like it would shatter the thin barrier between us. His voice, guttural and anguished, rose in a horrifying crescendo. “They’re here! They’ll get us both!” His fists battered the door, each blow vibrating through my body.
I crouched in the darkness, clutching a mop handle like a weapon. The minutes stretched, each one an eternity. Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. The silence was worse, thick and suffocating, as I waited for what felt like hours.
My mind raced with fragmented thoughts. Who were "they" that Ryan kept mentioning? Was it some delusion born of his illness, or was it possible he’d seen something the rest of us hadn’t? I tried to shake the irrational fear creeping into my thoughts, but in that claustrophobic space, logic seemed to falter.
Finally, I heard voices—security. Relief flooded through me as I unlatched the door and stepped out. The guards had subdued Ryan, his body limp as they sedated him and carried him back to the ward. But his eyes… his eyes still searched the room, as if the shadows themselves were alive.
The aftermath was a blur of questions and paperwork. The head nurse, Karen, tried to console me, but her words felt hollow. “This kind of thing happens sometimes,” she said, though the unease in her expression betrayed her attempt at reassurance.
Later, I learned more about Ryan. He wasn’t just another patient. Before his breakdown, he had been one of the hospital’s top neurosurgeons. A surgical mistake had cost a young girl her life, a tragedy he couldn’t bear. His guilt had consumed him, warping his mind until he was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. He saw her everywhere, her ghost haunting every corner of his shattered reality. Some of the staff whispered that Ryan’s madness had an eerie way of spreading, like a shadow that crept into anyone who got too close.
In the days that followed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the hospital had changed. The hallways felt darker, the quiet heavier. Even during routine tasks, I found myself glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Ryan’s wild eyes staring back at me. I began hearing whispers in the quiet hours, faint and fleeting, just like that night.
One evening, as I was restocking supplies, I found myself back near the storage room. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness spilling into the hallway. My chest tightened. It had been sealed off since the incident, yet here it was, open as if inviting me back in.
I stepped closer, my flashlight trembling in my hand. The room was empty, yet the air felt charged, heavy with something unseen. A faint chill brushed against my neck, and for a moment, I thought I heard it again—a whisper, soft and almost pleading. My rational mind told me it was nothing, just a draft or my imagination running wild. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
That night changed me. The hospital, once a place of healing, now felt like a labyrinth of human suffering. Each room held its own story, its own horrors. And I—a simple orderly—had become a reluctant witness to the thin line between sanity and madness.
I still hear his screams sometimes, in the quiet moments of my shift. I still feel the weight of his fear, his desperation. Riverview General isn’t just a hospital. It’s a repository of broken souls, and on that night, I glimpsed just how dark it could be.
The Stranger:
It started as an ordinary Friday night. I had just moved into a new apartment on the edge of town, a place I’d found on short notice after starting a new job. The rent was cheap, and it came with all the quirks you’d expect from an old building: creaky floors, thin walls, and the occasional strange noise. But I didn’t mind. It was a fresh start.
The first few days went by uneventfully. I’d unpacked most of my boxes and settled into a routine. My evenings were quiet—just me, my laptop, and the faint hum of the city outside my window. That Friday, I’d planned to relax with a movie and a glass of wine. It was raining lightly, the kind of night that made you want to stay indoors.
Around 10 p.m., I heard it for the first time: a soft knock at my door. It was faint, almost hesitant. I paused the movie, thinking maybe it was a neighbor. Grabbing my phone, I walked to the door and peered through the peephole. No one was there.
I opened the door a crack and glanced down the hallway. Empty. The sound of the rain was louder now, pattering against the windows at the end of the corridor. Shrugging it off, I closed the door and locked it. It was probably just my imagination.
Half an hour later, the knock came again. This time, it was louder. My heart started to race as I crept back to the door. Again, I looked through the peephole. Still nothing. But something felt off. The hallway seemed darker than before, as if the lights had dimmed. I stayed there for a moment, holding my breath, but no one appeared.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky. No response. Just the rain and the hum of the old building.
I decided to ignore it. Maybe it was some prank or a neighbor’s kid messing around. I tried to focus on the movie, but my nerves were on edge. Every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind outside made me jump.
By midnight, I was ready to call it a night. I double-checked the locks on my door and windows before heading to bed. My apartment was on the third floor, so I wasn’t too worried about someone climbing up. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that someone had been watching me.
I woke up around 3 a.m. to the sound of my front door handle jiggling. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t a knock or a prank. Someone was trying to get in.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, whispering to the operator what was happening. They told me to stay on the line and keep quiet. My heart was pounding so hard I thought whoever was at the door might hear it.
The jiggling stopped, and for a moment, there was silence. Then I heard it: the sound of footsteps moving away, down the hall. I crept to the door and looked through the peephole again. This time, I saw a shadow disappearing around the corner. Whoever it was, they weren’t in a hurry.
The police arrived about ten minutes later. Two officers searched the building but found no one. They assured me they’d patrol the area and suggested I get a security camera for my door. I nodded, still too shaken to say much.
The next day, I installed a camera and spent the weekend trying to convince myself it was just a random attempted break-in. Maybe someone thought my apartment was empty, or maybe it was just some drunk person who’d gotten the wrong door. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
A week went by without incident. The camera didn’t pick up anything unusual, and I started to relax. Then, one night, as I was reviewing the footage before bed, I saw it: a figure standing in the hallway just outside my door. They weren’t moving, just standing there, facing my door. The timestamp showed it had happened around 2 a.m., while I was asleep.
I called the police again and showed them the footage. They took it seriously this time and promised to increase patrols in the area. But they didn’t have much to go on. The figure was blurry, the hallway poorly lit. All they could tell me was that it appeared to be a man, tall and wearing dark clothes.
After that, I couldn’t sleep. Every noise, every shadow outside my window, sent me into a panic. I started keeping a knife by my bed and made plans to move as soon as my lease was up.
Then, two nights later, it happened again. This time, the knocking was frantic, almost desperate. I froze in bed, clutching my phone. The camera app was open, and I could see the figure standing at my door, pounding on it with both fists. My heart felt like it was about to explode.
I called 911, my voice barely a whisper. The operator stayed on the line, reassuring me as the pounding continued. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The figure turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall. Moments later, the police arrived.
They searched the building again but found no sign of the man. This time, they suggested I stay somewhere else for a while. I packed a bag and went to stay with a friend across town.
A few days later, I got a call from the building manager. They’d found a tenant living in the basement storage area. He’d been evicted months ago but had somehow managed to sneak back in and set up a makeshift living space. When they confronted him, he ran, and they hadn’t seen him since.
The police believed he was the one who’d been knocking on my door, possibly mistaking my apartment for someone else’s. But they couldn’t explain why he’d been standing outside my door at night, or why he’d seemed so intent on getting in.
In the days that followed, I found myself replaying every moment in my mind, questioning every sound I’d ignored, every instinct I’d brushed off. The man’s presence lingered in my thoughts, a constant shadow in my peripheral vision.
I moved out as soon as I could, breaking my lease and losing my deposit. It was worth it to feel safe again. But even now, in a new apartment in a different part of town, I still find myself checking the locks multiple times before bed and waking up at the slightest sound.
Some nights, I’ll dream of the man at my door, his shadowy figure burned into my memory. I’ll hear the knocking again, the frantic pounding that felt like it would never stop. And every time I hear a knock, no matter how innocent it seems, my heart skips a beat.
Even in broad daylight, when I’m surrounded by people, the thought of that hallway—dimly lit, silent except for the rain—creeps back into my mind. The sense of vulnerability, of being watched and hunted, is something I can’t seem to shake. I’ve started carrying pepper spray and looking over my shoulder more often than not.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I’d opened the door that night. The thought sends chills down my spine. Maybe it was just a case of mistaken identity. Or maybe it was something far worse. I’ll never know, and perhaps that’s the scariest part of all.