I keep hearing knocking on my bedroom door at night. I live alone.

I want to start by giving a little bit of backstory to this whole ordeal. I don’t want to put my name out there, so I’ll just say my name is Adam. I moved out of my parent’s house almost five months ago when I found a posting for a job that included a live-in apartment above it. I won’t go into too much detail about my life before that, but I was eager to leave my situation behind and have a life of my own free from it, so I jumped on the opportunity.

I called the phone number provided and talked to a kind older sounding woman who took down my name and answered a few of my questions. At first, I was skeptic and expressed as such, understandable given how well paying it was and all that came with accepting the job. She assured me it was a real offer and that the reason for that was because they were struggling to find anyone that would stay at the job for more than a few weeks. Obviously this was a red flag, and I even tried to press for more information, but she was reluctant to tell me more. Most people would have left then and there, and rightfully so, but like I said, I was in a bad situation and needed out, so desperation won over logic and reason.

The job was to take care of a store in a small town some miles over from where I grew up. I would be in charge of the whole store, all besides ordering stock, as the lady over the whole said they order stock periodically on their end, so I would just have to worry about unloading and shelving things. I didn’t have a car, so I had to ask a local friend to drive me over. I explained to them the whole thing and, obviously, they didn’t think it was a good idea, but they also understood what position I was in, so they quickly let it be. Part of me wishes they hadn’t, but, hindsight is twenty-twenty so they say.

When we rolled into the sleepy town of Pinewood (named very originally after the fact that it was, in fact, in the middle of a pine forested area), I already felt this sense of… off-ness. Now, you hear stories about this all the time, people driving through creepy old towns where the residents just stare at you as you pass by, but that was what this town was like. Both me and my friend were extremely creeped out by this, he even asked me multiple times if I was absolutely sure about this, but honestly between living in some creep town and going back to my parents, I would room with a serial killer if I had to.

We got to the store, which was situated at the far end of the main street running through the town, a general store, looking somewhat run down in that typical old town sort of way, where it almost has a charm to it. I will admit, the charm did kind of pull me in a bit, and I figured maybe the towns folk just didn’t get a lot of people running through let alone moving in, or maybe I was just trying hard to convince myself this was normal. The old lady I talked to over the phone met me at the door, where the other town folks had just stared, she seemed in high spirits and honestly just a sweet old lady, maybe in her seventies. Keeping with the theme of anonymity, for the rest of this retelling of events, I’ll be calling her Ms Sylvie, or just Sylvie.

Sylvie greeted me with such warmth and politeness that I honestly forgot all about all the odd goings-on that lead to this point. This was the conversation to the best I could remember:

Sylvie: “You must be Adam! Such a handsome young man! Thank you so much for taking over the store. This old place is a staple in this town, and I’m just too old to keep it running you see.”

Me: “Not a problem at all miss! Really I should be thanking you, I mean, you’re giving me a home and a paying job at that. Really, thank you so much.”

Sylvie: “Oh hush, think nothing of it.”

Exchanging a few more pleasantries, she took my hand into both of hers in a handshake. I remember her hands were cold, not like corpse cold, but still colder than I felt was natural given that it was the end of spring rolling into summer. I didn’t pay it much time as my friend took my two suitcases from the car.

“Is that all your belongings, dear?” Sylvie asked, pointing a wrinkled finger at what housed all I had to call my own.

“Yeah, not much, but it’s enough.” I replied. Mostly it was clothes, a laptop I had been given by the friend that was driving me after he got a new one, and a few other odds and ends.

Sylvie nodded, maintaining that warm and welcoming smile she had on the whole time. “If you find you’re in need of any clothes, Mr. Corigan owns the tailor shop down the way, you can take anything we sell here if you have need of it, of course it will be taken out of your pay, with a discount of course.”

I nodded, following her hand motioning to the direction down the street. The street looked deserted, as if it had been long since abandoned and left to rot with not a soul in sight. Sensing what I was thinking, not that I was doing much to hide it on my face, Sylvie continued.

“Most of this here town is old folks like myself, it’s a quiet place, not much life in the late afternoon and evenings. There are a few younger couples, older than yourself, but they grew accustomed to the quiet times we tend to adhere to. That being said, we do ask that you keep sound to a minimum in the later hours, us old folks need our beauty sleep, you know!” At that, she let out a laugh, the kind that you’d hear any old lady at a retirement home make. Honestly, she had a charm to her, the way she talked gave an air of maternity, a sense of genuine care for whoever she spoke to or of.

“Now then, if you follow me, dear, I’ll show you to your apartment. It isn’t much, but it should do well for someone living by themselves.”

By myself. It was at that moment that the sheer thought really dawned on me. I suppose, to most people this would be a rather chilling thought, loneliness, but I found comfort in it. My parents were never a comfort to me, and I would spend most of my time alone anyhow. I grew accustomed to it, welcomed by it, my safe space.

Sylvie lead me through the store, it was rather small, but that was to be expected I suppose. In a way, it was cute, a small general store for a small town, a few isles with stocked shelves, some fridges in back for meats and frozen goods, and a few more, well, general items. In the back was where I would be most of the time, a cashiers counter, a shelf behind stocked with cigarettes, and a mirror to see at some parts of the store. The place didn’t have any sort of surveillance, which I guess was on point for a store that old, and in a sleepy little town, I suppose crime isn’t too common anyhow. Next to the cashiers counter was the door to the storage room, with a freezer along the back wall and the rest just shelves. Through there, was the door to the stairs leading up to my apartment, and a door leading outside to the back where the garbage was.

Going up the stairs as my friend helped carry my bags, I reached the top, a long hallway greeting me, the lights a dim yellow with that all too familiar fluorescent buzzing. My door was the first, and then after was one other door at the end. I looked at it somewhat puzzled, figuring it must be the apartment next-door, though unlike mine, there was no peephole and there seemed to be quite a few locks on it. It was hard to see from the angle I was standing, but it was strange for sure.

Unlocking the door and letting me in, I got my first view of the place. It certainly didn’t feel small to me, but then again, a cardboard box would have likely been a welcoming home to me at that point. But the place was more than I could ever ask for, a small living room right at the door, no TV but that was fine, a dining room on the other end, which sat across from a rather large kitchen. The whole place was outdated with walls covered in wallpaper, that vintage yellow in the kitchen, the couch in the living room spotted with flowers. Some would likely call it tacky, but I found a charm in it, it felt like the kind of place someone could call home.

She pointed down a short hall, guiding me to where the bedroom and bathroom were. The bedroom had a bed and mattress, which looked somewhat worn but usable, which she apologized for, but I told her it was more than fine, a decently large closet, and a desk at the far end. Across from the bedroom was the bathroom, complete with a shower, a bath, a toilet which faced the sink and a mirror. Yes, that did mean I had to stare at myself when I was using it, and yes, I hated it.

I put my bags down as we walked to the front door, waving my friend off since he had to make the drive back, leaving me behind to talk some more with Sylvie. She put a kettle of water on the stove, and we sat at the dining table.

“I know this isn’t the sort of place you young folk would call fancy, but I hope it’s well enough for you.”

“It’s more than I could ask for! Really! Thank you, so much.”

She smiled warmly at me. “If you don’t mind my asking, dear, what lead you to take the job? It’s quite rare for us to get young folk through this town, even more rare for them to stay.”

I thought about it a bit, deciding how to answer. “Well, ma’am-”

“Oh dear, you can just call me Sylvie! You can call me ma’am when I’m so old I can’t even walk anymore!” She let out a laugh. Her cheery demeanor put me more at ease.

I mulled around in my head how to answer. I didn’t want to spill my sob story to her, so I answered quite simply, “Well ma- Sylvie, I… really just wanted a new start, away from things.”

She looked at me for a moment, perhaps deciding if she wanted to press me for more details or not. Ultimately, she decided not to, accepting my answer and perhaps recognizing that I didn’t want to talk more about it.

After a moment, I responded with my own question, “How come you’re looking for someone to run the store? Even giving them, well, me, the apartment space and all. I guess it just seems too good to be true-” I stammered for a moment, making sure she wasn’t offended, “-which of course I’m more than grateful for the fact that it’s not!”

She chuckled warmly at my verbal stumble, then nodded. “Well,” she began, “I did run this store some time ago. I ran it with my late husband, you see, and it had become something of a staple for the locals. When my son had gotten old enough to take over, he promised to do so to let me retire, and I moved to the house down the way.” She paused for a moment, as if to decide dhow much of the following to include. “He had run the store for perhaps a few months before he started to seem… tense. I had assumed that running the store had begun to cause him a lot of stress, and he told me he wanted to leave the town. He never told me why exactly.”

She seemed to grow sad at the last part. I sensed that there was more to that, but I didn’t want to pry, seeing as how she had given me the same courtesy. “Anywho, after he left, I had considered taking over the store again, but I felt I was perhaps a bit too old by then. There was no one in the town that could take over, so I took to putting out a post for the job. I’ve had a few people take it since then, though they don’t usually stay for more than a few years.”

I found that last part somewhat concerning. This seemed like the perfect job, the perfect situation to be handed. “Was there any reason for that?”

She hummed to herself, contemplating her answer. “Hmm. They all seemed to be rather stressed by running the store, lacking energy. They had all been young like you, so I just assume it was fatigue from the responsibility, which I understand.” She nodded at that last part, seemingly to herself. I felt like she was certainly hiding more details from me, but I was in no position to pry further. I needed this as much as she seemed to, so, I didn’t want to blow it by asking too much.

We spent some time after talking about what I would have to do around the store, the goings-on of the town, and some details of the towns inhabitants. She had poured us both some tea, which we had long since finished by the time the sun had started to set over the horizon. She excused herself, saying that it was getting late, to which I said I understood as I saw her to the door. She thanked me again as she left.

For the first month of my living here, things were calm, refreshingly so. I would wake up at around six, eat, shower, then open the store at seven. I had set up my laptop at the cashiers’ desk, as Sylvie told me that I was free to do whatever I wanted during the slow hours, as long as the store was stocked and clean. It was quiet more often than not, with the occasional customer coming in. Despite my initial impression of the towns folk, they were all rather nice, respectful, and excentric, and I had grown to know them all rather well. There was Mister Corigan the tailor, a well-dressed man with a British accent, who loved to talk about stories from his past, most of which I assume to be made up else if he were to be believed the man was a well known exotic hunter, soldier, spy, scientist, relative to the duke of Wales, and quite the ladies man. There was Miss Morgan, who was an elderly dark-skinned lady who carried herself with etiquette and poise, dressed like a woman straight out of the victorian era, though she always seemed rather kind, if a bit pretentious. There was Mister and Missus Laydon, the local doctor and vet respectably, who were the youngest among the residents at around late thirties to early forties, as well as their son and daughter who were only a bit younger than myself. There were more, but by now I believe I’ve painted a good enough picture. This town was close-knit, quiet, peaceful, and charming.

And that, is where the normal ends, and the concerning begins, starting with a feeling. Some time around my second month here, I began to get this feeling of being watched. At first, it was just a small feeling, like when you’re walking down a busy road, and you look over your shoulder every now and again. I had always been a bit anxious, so it was easily dismissed. As time passed, however, that feeling only grew, and it always felt worst when I was in the hall outside my apartment, this feeling as though something was staring right at me, boring holes right into the back of my neck. To give a description of how bad the feeling got, it was as like the feeling you get walking down a dark ally at night with not a single person around, constantly checking for signs of life to which you never spot. By then, I had assumed perhaps my anxiety disorder had simply gotten worse, and made a mental note to check in with Mister Laydon when I could. It was only a feeling, you see, and those are easy to dismiss, especially where it’s just a feeling.

One night, I awoke from a deep sleep, startled and alert. The darkness of the room felt suffocating, and although I was in my own bed, under my warm blanket, I had this sudden and explosive feeling that something was there. I figured I had just had a nightmare, but I scanned the room anyway. There was nothing, nothing at all, and I felt silly for even considering the notion.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My blood froze as I heard tapping. Initially I assumed it was at the window on the far end of the room, perhaps a branch outside? But there was no tree there close enough for that. Maybe someone was at my front door? At this hour though, not likely. The silence was deafening, but long enough to where I had started to feel maybe I just imagined it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I felt bile rise up the back of my throat and every hair on my body stand in alert. I most certainly did not imagine it, that was real. Rationality kicked in, and I continued to reason with myself what it could be. Maybe there was a rodent in the walls or attic, though I had not seen any mouse or rat droppings, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes moved to the door of my bedroom. I lived alone, but I still kept my bedroom door closed. I’m not sure if that’s weird, but having grown up with no privacy nor security, closing the door made me feel safe and comfortable.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What. The. Fuck. It was on the door. The tapping was on the fucking door. Not the bottom of the door, where I could still reason it to be a rodent, the upper middle of the fucking door. Someone, or something, was behind that door, tapping on it, in intervals of three.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There were three taps, then a pause for a few moments, long enough for my ears to start to hone in on any other possible noise, then tapping again. I felt sick, horrified. What do you even do in a situation like this? Whatever or whoever it was, was inside my house, tapping on my door for whatever reason. A normal burglar would not be tapping on someone’s closed bedroom door, and sure as shit not over and over.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A psycho killer? Out this far off the beaten path? I’ve heard of weirder shit than that. I remember one time hearing about a killer that would tap on peoples windows at night to lure them over in confusion. Could this be something similar? Was I about to get killed if I opened that door? But that guy did it so he could get in, and this person was already in the damn apartment, so why not just kill me?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I wracked my brain for anything in my room I could use to defend myself. I didn’t have a bat or anything, nor was I a gun owner (though I’d certainly be reconsidering that after this night), and I didn’t think a plastic hanger was going to do me much good. Then I remembered, I had a box cutter sitting on my night stand. I had left it in my pants after closing up shop, normally leaving it in the storage room for when I had to open more boxes, and only noticed before hopping into bed. I left it there so I would remember to take it in the morning, and I was happy as hell to have been so forgetful for once.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I slowly reached to it, gripping it tight as I extended the blade and slowly rose from my bed. The floor was carpeted which helped muffle my steps as I slowly creeped to the door. My plan was to put my ear to it, assess what was on the other side, which seems stupid in hindsight, but thinking is hard when you’re in a fight or flight situation. As I got to the door I was overcome with a new sense that caused me to stop instantly.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

When I was a kid, a raccoon had gotten into our walls somehow and, unable to escape, died. After some time, it began to rot, causing a stench so foul that my deadbeat dad was forced to actually do something about it. The smell of death is something you dont forget. The stench of rot and decay. The stench that was emanating from behind my door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I held back the urge to gag for fear of making any sound. I somehow didn’t smell it when I was in bed, or even when I was tiptoeing over to the door, I only smelled it when I was maybe a foot from it. I swallowed hard, put a hand over my nose, and leaned in that final step, putting ear to door. There was no sound, no breathing, not even that absence of sound you get when something is blocking the airflow. It was literally nothing at all.

BANG BANG BANG

I was sent flying backwards as a sudden flurry of slamming assaulted my ear, the door flexing with each hit, threatening to be torn from its very hinges or broken down entirely. I scurried back, retreating under my desk at the opposite side from the door, hiding like a scared child and clutching my little blade for dear life. The banging continued for what felt like an eternity before I finally cried out.

“Please! Go away!”

Then, it just stopped. I stayed curled up under my desk, waiting for it to start again, but it didn’t. There was no tapping, no banging, nothing at all, and I was left there, too scared to leave what had become my safe haven, eventually passing out from exhaustion.

I awoke maybe three or four hours later, the sun having only just creeped over the horizon and casting light into my room. Perhaps, I could have cast this off as a nightmare, if not for the fact I woke up still under that desk, the box cutter still in hand. As the memories came to me in a sleepy haze, I became instantly alert, staring at the door. It looked just as it had the day before, though I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting as I slowly rose to my feet. The smell was gone as I approached, knife held out and ready just in case as I slowly turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

I suppose it isn’t too shocking that there was nothing there, but what was stranger than that was the fact that nothing was disturbed. Nothing had been taken, nothing had been knocked over or even had any signs of being touched at all. I walked through the whole place, checking every corner more than once, but there was nothing. It wasn’t until I had started to walk back to my bedroom, thinking that maybe I had hallucinated or had some sort of episode, that my attention was drawn to the floor. The carpet had been on the floor through most of the house, save for the bathroom and kitchen, and in my search for the would-be-perp, there was no muddy footprint or anything. On the carpet just at the door, however, was two footprint shaped wet spots, having nearly dissipated and only barely noticeable.

The days that followed were calm again, but the calm didn’t last for long. If it had only happened once, I doubt I would be putting this here. There was calm for five or six days, the feeling of being watched leaving then coming back, and then the tapping at night. There was no reach pattern though, sometimes there were three days between the knocking, sometimes there was up to nine, but as sure as the wind blows, the tapping would come again.

It’s been months of this now. Sleep has grown harder. When it shows up now, it’s more aggressive, knocking harder each time it shows. I know I should call Sylvie, but I’ve been too scared to hear what she would have to say about this, either thinking I was crazy and asking me to leave, or some truth she might have that I don’t know I’d want to hear. It’s going to show up again tonight, I know it will, I don’t know how I know, but I do. I’m scared. I’m horrified. Please, for the love of god, someone tell me what to do. Help.