Three Knocks at Midnight

City folk don’t belong in the country, and they made sure I knew it before I’d even settled into the cabin I’d already dubbed Sanctuary.

Only the realtor didn’t. The good commission outweighed the guilty conscience, or maybe he really didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly local, coming from a neighboring town big enough to keep him Botoxed and patent leather booted. He was only too happy to unload the property on me, a fixer upper he only had in his inventory as a favor to a friend. He made sure I knew that. Didn’t want me thinking the backroads of nowhere were the norm for him. He had bus stop signage to pay for, after all.

Despite how beneath him it clearly was, I’m sure the sale contributed enough to keep his veneers blinding travelers for months to come.

I’d like to say I moved out to that cabin in the woods with some noble purpose in mind – I was planning to give up the wayward life of the techno-obsessed or I was returning to nature to become self-sufficient. Something that would make cashing in my life’s savings really mean something. Something that sounded better than suffering from a mid-life crisis.

Some people buy fancy cars. Some people buy new faces. I decided I needed to up the ante, just uproot my entire life and start over. Maybe fifty wouldn’t be able to find me if it didn’t have my forwarding address.

Turns out, in addition to all the crap I’d managed to accumulate in my lifetime as a perpetual bachelorette, the sore knees and aching back were just part of the package regardless of where I lived, and they protested with every box I carried in from the truck.

Honestly, there are worse ways to defy mortality than setting up in a genuine log cabin nestled in the middle of five acres of hilly woodland. The view from my bedroom window, all dappled light and gently waving maple leaves, was straight out of a Kinkade painting. Sure, I’d left behind an excellent job, colleagues, friends, connections, but here, I could breathe deeper, easier. It was a good thing.

So I kept telling myself, anyway, all the way to the convenience store I’d passed on my way into town to get me squared away for my first night in my new home.

I didn’t think I stuck out that much until I felt the cashier’s eyes following me through the aisles. Picking up a pack of toilet paper and a carton of milk never felt so scandalous. I tried not to make it obvious I knew she was watching, she didn’t try to hide it at all, and I stuffed my basket full of items under her half-lidded scrutiny.

“You new around here?” she asked when I approached the counter, unable to avoid paying any longer.

“Yeah,” I said, short and sweet and with a smile.

Her thin lips smacked together as she dragged my eggs across the bar code reader. “Whereabouts you from?”

I told her. She smirked, unimpressed, unhurried, as many un’s as she could fit into one expression.

“What’d you come all the way out here for?”

“Change of scenery.”

“Big change.”

“Kind of the point.”

She flicked a plastic bag open and dropped my chips inside. “You bought the Cordell place, didn’t you? The house on Hillwood.”

“How’d you know?” I asked, though I figured there weren’t too many other options to pick from.

“‘Cos it’s always the Cordell place with people like you.”

“People like me?”

“The ones who don’t know better. Those woods out there…never mind.”

“No,” I said, suppressing the amusement at the cliche stereotypes playing out between us, “tell me. I want to know.”

“You all say that, but none of you listen. Why waste what little breath I’ve still got left.”

“Because maybe I’ll listen.”

She eyed me from beneath lids smudged with faded blue shadow. “Fine. At least then I can say I warned you.” She put down the bread she’d been about to scan and settled back on her stool, arms crossing. “Folk like you, you like to understand things. To find reason. That don’t work out here. Some things don’t need explaining; they just are.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“You don’t ‘got it’ though. And you won’t. Not until the knocking starts.”

I lifted my eyebrow and she chuckled.

“Three knocks at midnight. That’s how you’ll know it’s there.”

“That what’s there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Don’t go looking, don’t try to figure it out, don’t even get out of bed. You hear the three knocks, you just accept it’s out there and you leave it be.”

“What if I don’t?”

She sighed, relaxing from her storyteller pose, and snapped open another bag. “Then I’ll be saying all this again in another six months or so to whoever buys the Cordell place from your next of kin.”

I didn’t believe any of it, of course, and left with my groceries and the impression I’d just been treated to a particular brand of small town charm.

Night is different out in the woods. Quieter in some ways, but so much louder in others. The trees creak. Insects chirp in a never ending chorus. Even the mildest breeze becomes a voice, low and whispering against the logs.

And the dark.

It came like an oil spill, completely smothering everything outside my windows. I was so used to the constant, dull haze cast by city lights that I just stood on my front porch, staring up at the stars like I’d never really seen the night sky before. Maybe I hadn’t.

When I finally dragged myself inside, drunk on cheap convenience store beer and the cosmos, I only made it as far as the couch before I crashed.

Those same beers woke me up hours later and I lurched, half-asleep, for the downstairs bathroom to empty my bladder. I was proud I made it without breaking my toes on any of the boxes in the dark and, after washing my hands, decided to put my luck to the test again by going upstairs to sleep in my bed. I flopped on my stomach, still clothed, teeth unbrushed, and pulled my comforter up to my chin.

The knocks were faint, distant, but distinct.

Three slow, solid raps somewhere out in the woods.

My eyes popped open and flicked automatically to the clock on my nightstand. Its blue numbers glowed bright in the black.

12:00 AM

The convenience store cashier floated across my not-quite-sober mind, but sank away just as quickly.

A coincidence, I thought. Woodpeckers could be nocturnal, right? Or some other nighttime animal doing nighttime animal things.

Or townies, having fun with the new lady.

There really wasn’t much around to keep young, easily bored minds entertained, and midnight wasn’t really all that late. Combine empty heads with empty hours and you get such brilliant ideas as playing local legend in the woods.

Very funny.

I snorted and rolled out of bed to walk to the window. Though unlikely, If they were out there, there was a chance I’d see their flashlights bouncing through the trees as they scampered off, giggling at a job well done.

A chill pricked like needles against the bottom of my feet as soon as I came to stand at the window. It traveled in tiny slivers up my legs, an icy fear that coursed through my blood until I was hugging myself. My heart drummed loudly as I stared outside, a sudden fight-or-flight reaction I couldn’t explain. I had to fight the urge to turn and jump back into bed like I had when I was a little girl afraid of monsters reaching out from the underside to grab me.

There was nothing for me to be afraid of.

Only the woods. Only the dark.

I had to back up a few steps before I could make myself turn around and face my room again. A deep, shuddering breath escaped me and I crawled quickly back into bed. It was only once I’d cocooned myself tightly in my blankets that the fear began to ebb and my thoughts cleared.

It’d been a while since I’d been drunk last, even longer since I’d had such bottom shelf stuff. Lower tolerance and lower quality apparently made for one hell of a hangover.

Even with this justification locked in, I didn’t look at my window again for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I treated myself to breakfast at a local diner, both to see more of the town and to soothe any lingering frazzled nerves. The first night in a new place, especially one so far from what I was used to, was bound to come with some jitters. Nothing a hearty bacon and egg sandwich on an everything bagel couldn’t fix.

The waiter who served me was a cheery sort, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, which was a nice change of pace from yesterday’s cashier. We made small talk when he stopped by with coffee and again when he delivered my food, but when he brought the check, I couldn’t resist steering the topic a little closer to home.

“You know the Cordell place?” I asked lightly, holding his pen and the signed check hostage.

“Sure,” he said, suddenly not quite as bright eyed as he looked down at his grease stained shoes.

“Just moved in. I heard a funny thing from someone about it; something about three knocks?”

“Yeah, it’s just something you hear.”

“I did,” I said. “Hear it, I mean. The knocks. Is it a hazing thing? The locals trying to run out the city slicker?”

He didn’t laugh with me.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“Sorry?”

“It’s just…one of those things. It happens. Don’t worry about it.”

“But what is it?”

His nostrils flared slightly and he shifted uncomfortably. “You should just ignore it.”

I tried to find any sign of teasing hiding in his strained expression.

“Some things just are,” he said, sounding very much like the woman from the day before. “It’s best just to leave it. Don’t ask questions. Don’t look for it. If you leave it alone, it’ll leave you alone.”

“But–”

“You have a good day, ma’am.”

He snatched his pen and the check away and was gone before I could reply.

Wandering through town for the rest of the morning revealed two things: there wasn’t much town to wander through and everyone had the same reaction to the Cordell place.

Best not to go out after dark.

You’ll hear things sometimes. Just ignore them.

Just mind your own business and you’ll be fine.

All their warnings only served a single purpose: to make me wonder what was in those woods.

11:59 PM

I was sitting in a chair in front of my bedroom window. The moon was bright, lining the trees in muted, silver light.

The hour turned.

Three knocks rang out from the woods, as solid as the night before, but slightly faster.

And closer.

My fingers curled around the collar of my shirt and I leaned forward, breath becoming shallow as I searched the dark. My stomach churned, like worms wriggling in rain drenched soil, and the hairs along the back of my neck stood on end.

A shadow stood at the edge of my property, impossible to make out in detail, but nearly as tall as the trees themselves. Its shape was almost humanoid, but the head…the head was wrong. Too long, too narrow.

And it was watching me watch it.

I flung myself out of the window and squeezed against the wall, my eyes shut tight and hands clasped over my ears, though it hadn’t made a sound except for the three knocks.

At some point, I peeled myself out of the corner and peeked out the window again, but the silvery moonlight shone only on empty woods.

I needed answers, and I needed them now.

The only person who’d spoken frankly about whatever was out there was the convenience store clerk, so I drove over as soon as it was open. Fate or luck or maybe just a really convenient schedule had her sitting on her stool behind the counter when I yanked the door open and stormed inside.

She took one look at my tangled hair and dark rimmed eyes and tutted under her breath.

“I told you not to look.”

“What the hell is it?”

“I told you, some things just are. No explaining it.”

“There’s gotta be–”

“You people,” she exhaled through her nose, “always wanting a clear answer. Well, here it is: keep looking, and you’ll find out.”

I stared at her, hands flat against the counter, chest heaving, feeling like I was on the verge of losing my mind, and she just shook her head like a disappointed librarian facing down a kid who won’t shut up.

“Ain’t nothing I can do for you.”

I clawed my hair away from my face. “I just want to know what’s going on!”

“You answered its knocks, you looked, you asked questions, now you’re complaining that it’s coming to answer in return.”

I sped away from the store, mind racing as quickly as my car. I was not a believer in the supernatural or paranormal or whatever else falls under the category of Stephen King schlock, but this wasn’t a matter of belief. I had seen it, this knocking shadow, with my own eyes. I had felt the fear that radiated off of it. And I was certain with every fiber of my being that I had to get away.

I careened on to the mile long driveway leading to my cabin, trying to concentrate enough to come up with a list of absolute essentials to grab. I didn’t realize that with each item, my foot was pressing just a little harder on the gas, that I was going far too fast for that little strip of dirt road, that the final curve was just a hair too sharp.

The tires skid.

I screamed.

The trees closed in.

A shrill chorus of crickets woke me into darkness. I didn’t immediately know where I was, only that side of my head was pounding miserably. When I touched it, shards of window glass fell from my damp, sticky hair. Little by little, I pieced together the last things I remembered, and groaned.

“I must have hit my head in the crash,” I said aloud to help orient myself. My voice sounded dry and gummy. “What time is it?”

11:57 PM

Panic surged within me and I fumbled for the seat belt latch. Everything felt dreamlike and slow, though fear blazed within my sluggish mind, compelling clumsy fingers to work faster. Finally the lock clicked and I was free, but when I attempted to shoulder open the door, it refused to budge. I tried again to the same result.

A tree, I realized. I’d spun off road and ended up pinned against a tree.

Desperation was the only thing that got me over the center console and into the passenger seat. I scrambled to find the handle in the dark, and almost cried out in terrified joy when my fingers closed on it. I had just begun to pull when the whole car shuddered.

Knock

Knock

Knock

I fell back against the seat, fear closing my throat, and covered my mouth with both hands.

A heavy step dragged against the ground at the rear of the car.

A dread I’d never known bore down on me, squeezing me into as tight a ball as I could manage. The taste of iron filled the back of my throat, blood from biting down on my tongue and raw, unfettered fear. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt, an ancient, primal understanding that I was being hunted.

That I was about to die.

Another step and the car rocked when something large and heavy brushed against it.

A Shadow filled my window.

I had answered the knocks.

I had looked.

I had asked questions.

I’d given it attention.

The window next to my head pressed in. Cracks formed from its center, spreading outwards.

Don’t answer, my own voice screamed in my head.

Don’t look.

I tucked my forehead against my knees and clamped my eyes shut as the window burst inward. Tiny pebbles of tempered glass rained down on me.

Don’t answer.

Don’t look.

A smell I could only think of as death seeped in with the night air. Mid-summer roadkill, a stagnant pond, rot. It was oily and thick, coating me like a humid mist. I heaved, but swallowed my stomach contents back down to avoid making a sound.

What felt like multiple, thick fingers, a dozen or more, poked and prodded my side and shoulder, tugged at my hair, pushed at the small ball I’d turned myself into. Heat rolled off of them, scorching my skin with the sting of extinguishing matches, and a rumble vibrated through the car until the keys shook in the ignition.

A rough appendage dragged down my cheek to my neck, leaving a hot, slimy trail across my skin.

Its tongue, my thoughts reeled, sick with horror. It’s tasting me!

Don’t answer!

Don’t look!

A sudden shriek tore through the night and I almost joined it with a scream of my own, but the finger-things grabbed my arm and yanked hard. My head slammed into the top of the broken window, mercifully dazing me into continued silence. My shoulder twisted with a loud pop, and fire spread across my chest. A howl burned beneath it, but I ground my teeth together to keep it from getting out.

It pulled again, trying to tear me out of the wreckage, but I sank down into the wheel well and wedged myself as far under the dashboard as I could manage. My arm still dangled limply in its alien grasp, but I did not look.

I did not scream.

I did not answer.

It shrieked again and the roof of the car caved inward over the backseat beneath a slamming weight. My arm was released and fell uselessly across the passenger seat.

The night went still and silent.

It wasn’t until the sun began to rise that I pulled myself, sobbing and screaming, out of the car. Raised, blistering welts and bruises dotted my body, every movement was agony. I wasn’t even sure how my arm was still attached.

But I was alive.

As I limped my way down the driveway toward my cabin to call for help, I swore I would never spend another night at the Cordell place. I would send movers to get my things, put it up for sale, and I would never look back.

And I would never try to figure out or explain what happened to me there.

Some things are better left alone.