"Three Knocks":
I sat on the edge of my bed, scrolling through my phone in the dim light from the screen. My parents had gone out for a dinner with friends, leaving me to watch the house for the first time in months. I was fifteen, old enough to handle it, or so they said. The clock on my nightstand showed 12:15 a.m. The house felt too quiet without the usual hum of the TV downstairs or my mom's soft footsteps in the kitchen. I put my earbuds in and started a video about old video games, trying to kill time until I got tired.
A few minutes in, a sharp knock echoed from the back door. It cut through the audio like a knife. I pulled out one earbud and listened. Maybe the wind, or a branch hitting the glass. But then it came again—three hard raps, deliberate. My room was upstairs, at the end of the hall, with a window overlooking the backyard. I got up quietly and crept to the window, peeking through the blinds. The yard looked empty, just the outline of the fence in the dark. No one there. I shrugged it off and went back to bed, but my mind wouldn't settle. What if it was a neighbor? We didn't get visitors this late.
The knocking started again, louder this time, like someone testing the door. Thud, thud, thud. It went on for what felt like forever, pausing only to start up again. I sat up, heart racing a little faster. "This isn't right," I whispered to myself. I grabbed my phone and texted my dad: "Hearing knocks at back door. You know anything?" No reply right away. They were probably still at the restaurant, signal spotty there. The knocks turned into bangs now, the kind that made the whole frame rattle. I imagined the wood splintering under a heavy fist.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the hallway, keeping low. The stairs creaked under my weight as I edged down, staying close to the wall. From the bottom, I could see the back door through the kitchen archway. It was a sliding glass one, with curtains half-drawn. A shadow moved outside—tall, hunched, like a man pressing against the glass. He was right there, his face obscured but his hand flat on the pane, sliding it back and forth as if checking the lock. I ducked behind the couch in the living room, breath shallow. Why wasn't the alarm going off? Dad had set it before they left, or had he?
"Hello?" a voice called from outside, muffled but clear enough. It was a man's voice, rough and low, like gravel. "Hey, open up. I need to talk." Talk? At this hour? I didn't answer. My fingers trembled as I dialed 911 on my phone, keeping the volume low. The operator picked up quick. "Emergency services, what's your location?"
I whispered my address, voice barely above a breath. "There's someone trying to get in the back door. I'm home alone."
"Sir, stay on the line. Officers are on their way. Can you describe him?"
"Tall guy, dark clothes. He's banging now." As I spoke, the banging intensified. The glass door shook violently. "Please hurry."
The operator's voice stayed calm. "Lock all doors if you can. Hide if possible. What's your name?"
"Jordan," I said, crawling toward the basement stairs. Our house had a finished basement with a lock on the door from the inside. If I could get down there... But the shadow shifted. He was fiddling with the handle now, twisting it hard. Click, click. Was the lock holding? I froze midway, phone pressed to my ear. "He's at the door still."
"Jordan, get to a safe spot. Do you have a weapon?"
"Just a baseball bat in my room." Upstairs. No time. The operator murmured something about ETA—five minutes. Five minutes felt like hours. Then, a crash. Glass shattered, shards tinkling onto the kitchen floor. Footsteps crunched over them—he was in. Heavy boots on tile, slow and searching. "Hello?" he called again, louder. His voice filled the house now, echoing off the walls. "I know someone's here. Come on out. I just need to borrow something."
Borrow? My mind raced. Who breaks in to borrow? I backed up slowly, eyes on the kitchen light spilling into the hall. He stepped into view—a big guy in a hoodie, face hidden under the hood, gloved hands flexing. He scanned the living room, his head turning my way. I dove behind the basement door, pulling it almost shut but not latching it. The footsteps got closer, pausing at the couch where I'd been. He kicked it lightly, like testing if someone hid there. "Kid? I saw the light upstairs. Don't make this hard."
How did he know about the light? I'd turned it off before coming down. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The operator whispered, "Police are two minutes out. Stay quiet." But he was right in front of me now, just feet away. His boot scraped the floor as he turned toward the basement door. I gripped the knob from inside, ready to slam it if he pushed. "Come out," he growled. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Just give me the keys to the car in the garage."
The car? Dad's old sedan. He must have been watching the house, waiting for them to leave. Panic surged. If he got the keys, he could take off, but what about me? His hand touched the door—pushed gently at first. I held it firm, muscles straining. "Who's in there?" he demanded, voice rising. He shoved harder. The door bucked against my shoulder. "Open up, or I'll break it down."
"Please," I muttered to the phone, "he's at the basement door."
The operator: "Units are pulling up now. Lights on. Stay put."
Sirens wailed in the distance, faint but growing. He heard them too. His shove stopped. "Damn it," he hissed. Footsteps retreated fast—back through the kitchen, glass crunching again. A door slammed, then silence. I waited, counting to ten, twenty. The front door burst open upstairs. "Police! Show yourself!"
I yelled from below, "Down here! I'm okay!" They found me huddled by the stairs, phone still clutched. The guy had bolted out the back, hopping the fence into the woods behind. But they caught him two blocks away, panting and cursing. Turned out he was a local handyman who'd done work for my parents months ago. He'd lost his job, fallen on hard times, and fixated on our place after seeing the car in the driveway. He confessed to watching the house for days, waiting for a chance. The police said if I hadn't called, he might have ransacked everything—or worse.
My parents rushed home an hour later, faces pale. Mom hugged me tight, dad checked every lock twice. We got a new alarm system the next day, one that screams at the first tamper. I don't stay home alone at night anymore, not without double-checking the doors. That voice still echoes in my head sometimes, the way it turned from calm to angry in seconds. It makes me wonder how close things got to going really wrong.
"Dust and Footsteps":
I had just gotten back from a long shift at the warehouse, my muscles aching from lifting boxes all day. The house felt quiet as I kicked off my shoes and headed straight to bed, too tired to even eat. Living alone in that old rental on the edge of town had its perks—no one to bother me—but sometimes the emptiness got to me. That night, I fell asleep fast, the kind of deep sleep where the world disappears.
A strange noise pulled me out of it. At first, I thought it was part of a dream, but then it came again: a soft thump from downstairs. My eyes snapped open, and I glanced at the clock—around nine o'clock. The room was dark, only a bit of light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtains. I lay there, listening, my breathing shallow. Maybe it was the house settling, or wind knocking something over. But then I heard footsteps. Clear, heavy footsteps moving across the living room floor below.
My mind raced. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, but the battery was low, and I hadn't plugged it in. No missed calls, no texts. My friend Jason sometimes stopped by unannounced—he had a key for emergencies—but he always messaged first. I whispered to myself, "Jason? Is that you?" No answer. The footsteps stopped for a second, then started again, quicker this time, like someone searching for something.
I slipped out of bed quietly, my bare feet cold on the wood floor. The door to my room was cracked open, and I peeked out into the hallway. Nothing. But downstairs, I heard a drawer open in the kitchen, then close with a bang. Someone was in my house. My chest tightened, and I backed up, trying not to make a sound. Who could it be? A burglar? Why my place? It wasn't fancy, just a two-bedroom with basic stuff.
The footsteps headed toward the stairs. They were coming up. Panic hit me hard. I couldn't fight whoever it was—I wasn't strong enough, and I had no weapon. The closet in my room had an access panel to the attic, a small square in the ceiling I'd used once to store holiday decorations. It was my only chance. I hurried over, opened the closet door as quietly as I could, and pushed some clothes aside. Standing on a box, I lifted the panel and pulled myself up into the dusty space above. The air up there was thick with insulation and old wood smell, and I had to crouch low to avoid hitting my head on the beams.
I slid the panel back into place just as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might give me away. Through the thin panel, I could hear everything. The intruder paused in the hallway, then pushed open my bedroom door. The light switched on—I saw the glow through the cracks. He moved around, opening drawers, rustling papers. Then he came to the closet. The door yanked open with force, hangers clattering. I held my breath, staring down at the panel, praying he wouldn't look up.
He muttered something low, like "Where are you?" His voice was rough, angry. It sent a wave of fear through me. This wasn't just a thief; he was looking for me. Why? I didn't know him. He stepped back, and I heard him go to the spare room next door, the one with boxes and my old weights. More rummaging, things being tossed around. A box fell over with a thud. He growled in frustration.
Then he came back to my room. Closer now. He stopped right below the closet, and I could hear his breathing, heavy and uneven. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted up—he must have been smoking outside earlier. That's what I'd noticed when I got home. He'd been waiting. My phone vibrated in my pocket—a low battery warning. I silenced it quick, but the buzz seemed loud in the silence.
"Come out," he said, louder this time. "I know you're here somewhere." His words echoed in my head. How did he know? Had he been watching the house? I pictured him outside, in the shadows, seeing me come home alone. The thought made my skin crawl. He kicked something—a shoe, maybe—and cursed under his breath. Then he reached into the closet again, pushing clothes around. His hand brushed close to the ceiling. If he jumped, he could reach the panel.
I shifted slightly, ready to push down if he tried to climb. Dust fell from my movement, but he didn't notice. He stepped back, pacing the room. "This is taking too long," he mumbled. "Just come out, and it'll be quick." Quick? What did that mean? My mind filled with horrible possibilities. Was he armed? I hadn't heard a gun, but maybe a knife. The fear built, making it hard to stay still.
Minutes dragged on. He sat on my bed—I heard the springs creak. Was he waiting me out? I couldn't stay up here forever; my legs were cramping. But moving would give me away. Down below, he stood up again, walked to the window, pulled the curtain. "Fine," he said, like he was talking to me. "I'll check the rest." He left the room, footsteps going down the hall, then down the stairs.
I waited, counting in my head. One minute, two. No sounds. Had he gone? Or was he tricking me? After what seemed like forever, I heard the front door open and close. Silence. I eased the panel open a crack, listened. Nothing. Slowly, I climbed down, legs shaking. The room was a mess—drawers open, clothes strewn. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, whispering as I hid behind the door.
"911, what's your emergency?" the operator asked.
"Someone broke into my house," I said, voice trembling. "He was looking for me. I hid in the attic. I think he's gone now."
"Stay on the line. Officers are on the way. Are you safe?"
"I don't know. Please hurry."
I waited there, listening for any sound. Sirens finally came in the distance. The police searched the house, found the back door jimmied open. No sign of him. They took my statement, asked if I knew anyone who might do this. I didn't. They said it could be a random burglar, but his words— "come out, it'll be quick"—that didn't sound random.
That night changed everything. I installed better locks, got a security system. But even now, when I'm alone at night, I check the attic panel, just in case.
"Through the Screen":
I was in my early twenties, finishing up college in a small beach town where the sound of waves was a constant backdrop. To make ends meet, I worked as a bartender at a local spot that stayed open until the early hours. My roommates and I rented a house that wasn't fancy, but it was close to everything we needed. My room was on the ground floor, with a window that looked out onto the parking area. I liked cracking it open a bit before bed to let in the fresh air, even though it was a habit some might call risky.
On this particular shift, things had dragged on longer than usual. A big group came in late, and by the time I cleaned up and cashed out, it was already past three in the morning. I walked the short distance home, my feet aching from standing all night. The house was dark when I arrived; my roommates had gone to bed hours earlier, their rooms upstairs quiet. I let myself in through the front door, locked it behind me, and headed straight to my room. I changed into comfortable clothes—a loose shirt and shorts—and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up. Exhaustion hit me fast, and I started drifting off almost right away.
But then, a small noise pulled me back. It was a faint scratching sound, coming from the direction of the window. At first, I thought it might be a branch brushing against the screen or maybe a small animal scurrying around outside. The area had its share of cats and raccoons that liked to poke around at night. I lay there, listening, trying to convince myself it was nothing. The scratching continued, irregular but persistent. It sounded like metal on metal, deliberate. My mind raced through possibilities: could it be one of my roommates playing a joke? No, they were asleep, and besides, they wouldn't do that this late.
I sat up slowly, keeping the lights off to avoid drawing attention. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from a streetlamp outside. I slipped out of bed and moved quietly to the corner, pressing myself against the wall near the foot of the bed. From there, I could peer toward the window without being easily seen. My hands felt cold as I gripped the edge of the mattress for support. The scratching grew louder, and now I could make out a shadow moving just beyond the screen. It was a person, hunched over, working at the window with something in their hand.
I watched as the figure used a tool to cut through the screen—a blade, glinting slightly in the low light. It was a man, wearing a dark hoodie that hid most of his face. He was lifting the cut section away, preparing to hoist himself inside. Panic surged through me, but I forced myself to think. My phone was on the nightstand, too far to grab without making noise. The door to the hallway was behind me, but running might alert him. In that split second, I decided to act.
As he started to pull himself up, his hands gripping the windowsill, I jumped onto the bed for leverage. Using all my strength, I kicked out with both feet, aiming for his chest. My heels connected solidly, and he let out a grunt of surprise as he tumbled backward. He hit the ground outside with a thud, crashing into a bike rack in the parking lot. The impact must have stunned him because he didn't get up right away. I scrambled to the window, slammed it shut, and twisted the lock as hard as I could. My breathing came in short gasps, but I didn't waste time. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, backing away to the farthest corner of the room.
The operator answered quickly. "911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a man trying to break into my room," I whispered urgently, keeping my voice low in case he was still out there. "He cut the screen on my window and was climbing in. I kicked him out, but he might still be outside."
"Okay, stay calm. What's your address?" the operator asked, her tone professional.
I gave her the details—the house number, street, everything. "Please hurry. I'm alone down here. My roommates are upstairs, but I don't want to wake them and make noise."
"Are you safe right now? Is the window secure?"
"Yes, I locked it. But he had a knife or something—a box cutter, I think."
"Units are on the way. Stay on the line with me. Do you see him now?"
I crept closer to the window, peeking out carefully. The bike rack was bent, but the man was gone. "No, he's not there. He must have run off."
"Describe him for me—height, build, what he was wearing."
"About average height, maybe five-ten. Slim build. Black hoodie, dark pants. I didn't see his face clearly."
We stayed on the phone for what felt like forever, the operator asking questions to keep me focused. I heard sirens in the distance after a few minutes, growing louder. Blue and red lights flashed across the walls as police cars pulled up. I unlocked the front door for them, still on the call.
Two officers came in, one staying with me while the other checked outside. "Ma'am, can you tell us what happened?" the first officer asked, notebook in hand.
I repeated the story, pointing to the damaged screen. "He was right there, cutting it open. I kicked him before he could get in."
The officer nodded. "We'll take a look around. Stay inside."
They searched the area, and about twenty minutes later, they returned with news. "We found someone matching your description two blocks away, hiding in some bushes. He had a box cutter on him, along with zip ties and duct tape in a bag. Looks like he wasn't just there to steal."
I felt a wave of nausea at the thought of what might have happened. "Who is he?"
"Known to us—has a record for sexual assault. You're lucky you reacted fast."
One of them added, "But you should keep those windows closed at night. Beach towns like this attract all kinds. An open window is an invitation."
I nodded, though part of me resented the implication that it was my fault. Still, they were right about being more careful. They took photos of the window, my statement, and left after making sure the house was secure.
The next day, I told my roommates what had happened. They were shocked and insisted on helping me fix the screen with stronger mesh. We all chipped in for better locks and even a simple alarm system. I stopped opening the window at night, no matter how nice the breeze felt. Sleep didn't come easy for weeks; every little sound made me sit up, listening. I started double-checking doors and windows before bed, a routine that stuck with me.
Looking back, that night taught me how vulnerable we can be, even in a familiar place. The police followed up a few times, and the man was charged based on the evidence and my description. He pleaded guilty, avoiding a trial, and got time behind bars. It was a relief, but the memory lingered. I finished college and moved away eventually, but I carried that caution with me. Stories like mine aren't rare, and sharing them reminds others to stay vigilant. If something feels off, trust that instinct—it might save you.
"The Closet":
I was sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through channels on the TV, trying to find something good to watch. It was a regular Monday morning, but school was out for some reason I can't even remember now, and my parents had left for work early. The house felt big and empty without them, but I was used to it. I was twelve, old enough to handle being by myself for a few hours. Or so I thought.
A knock came at the front door. It was firm, like someone who meant business. I paused the TV and sat still for a second, wondering who it could be. We didn't get many visitors during the day, especially not on a weekday. I got up quietly and tiptoed to the window, peeking through the curtains without moving them too much. Two men stood on the porch. One was tall with a beard, wearing a dark jacket, and the other was shorter, in a hoodie. They didn't look like anyone I knew, and something about the way they glanced around made me uneasy. I decided not to answer. Better safe than sorry, right? That's what my mom always said.
The knocking stopped after a minute, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I went back to the couch, but then I heard something from the backyard. A rustling, like feet on the grass. My hands got clammy as I listened harder. Then came a louder noise – banging, like someone hitting the back door. It wasn't a knock this time; it was forceful, insistent. I crept to the kitchen window and looked out. The two men were there, at the back door. The tall one was kicking at it, his boot slamming against the wood. My mind raced. What did they want? Why were they trying to get in?
I backed away from the window, my breath coming quick and shallow. I grabbed my phone from the counter where I'd left it charging. My fingers fumbled as I dialed 911. I didn't wait for them to break in; I knew I had to hide. The upstairs bedroom was closest, so I ran up the stairs as quietly as I could, my socks slipping a little on the steps. I slipped into my parents' room and shut the door softly behind me. The closet was big, with clothes hanging and boxes on the floor. I pushed myself into the back, behind some winter coats, and pulled my knees up to my chest.
The phone connected. "911, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice said, calm and clear.
I whispered, keeping my voice as low as possible. "There are two men trying to break into my house. Please send help."
"Okay, stay calm," she said. "Where are you right now?"
"I'm hiding in the closet upstairs. They're at the back door. I can hear them banging."
"What's your address?"
I told her quickly, my words tumbling out. Downstairs, the banging got louder, then there was a crack – like wood splintering. They were inside. I could hear footsteps in the kitchen, drawers opening and closing. Things crashing to the floor. My whole body tensed. What if they came upstairs? What if they found me?
"Do you see any weapons?" the operator asked.
"I don't know," I whispered. "They're kicking the door. Please hurry."
"We're sending officers right now. Stay on the line with me. Don't hang up."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. The house was quiet for a moment, then I heard voices – muffled, but definitely two men talking. "Check the living room," one said, his voice rough. "Grab anything valuable."
The other replied, "Yeah, and hurry up. Don't want anyone coming home."
My hiding spot felt smaller, the air thicker. I clutched the phone tighter, listening to every creak in the floorboards. Footsteps moved through the house, getting closer to the stairs. One of them was coming up. I bit my lip to stay silent, my eyes fixed on the closet door through the hanging clothes. The bedroom door opened with a soft click. Someone was in the room now.
I whispered into the phone, "I think one of them is in the bedroom."
"Stay quiet," the operator said. "Officers are almost there. Does your closet have a lock?"
"No," I breathed. "What do I do?"
"Just stay hidden. Keep the line open."
The man in the room rummaged through drawers, muttering to himself. "Nothing here," he called down to the other. Then his footsteps came closer to the closet. My mind screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. The door handle turned. Light spilled in as he pulled it open.
He was the shorter one, in the hoodie. Our eyes met. His widened in surprise. I couldn't help it – I said, "Please don't hurt me."
He stared for a split second, then shouted to his partner, "There's a kid in here!" He backed away, turning and running out of the room. I heard them both scrambling downstairs, the front door slamming.
"They saw me," I whispered to the operator, my voice shaking. "They're running away."
"Okay, good. Stay where you are until the police get there."
I waited, curled up in the closet, listening to sirens in the distance. They grew louder, and soon voices called out from downstairs. "Police! Is anyone here?"
I peeked out, then stepped from the closet. "Up here!" I called, my legs wobbly as I went down the stairs.
Two officers met me in the living room, one a woman with kind eyes. "Are you okay, son?" she asked.
I nodded, though I felt like I might cry. "They broke in the back door. I hid and called you."
"You did great," she said. "That was smart thinking."
They checked the house, made sure no one else was there. The place was a mess – drawers pulled out, stuff scattered. But nothing seemed missing; they hadn't had time. The officers took my statement, and I told them everything, from the knock to the moment they ran.
Later, I learned the police caught the two men not far away. Their names were Robbie Jay Johnson Jr. and Cole Austin Lewallen. They had records for stuff like this. The tall one was the leader, the shorter one his partner. They thought the house was empty, looking for easy cash or valuables. But because I called right away and stayed hidden, they got spooked and left.
That day changed things for me. I couldn't sleep well for weeks, jumping at every noise. My parents installed better locks and a security system. They praised me for being brave, but I didn't feel brave – just lucky. I kept thinking about what might have happened if they hadn't run, if I'd answered the door, if I hadn't grabbed my phone.
Even now, years later, when I'm alone at night, I double-check every door and window. I listen a little closer to the quiet. That morning taught me how fast things can turn bad, how important it is to act quick. But mostly, it reminds me that sometimes, the scariest moments are the ones you least expect.