Don’t Answer the Door

It started with a knock.

Three slow, deliberate raps at the front door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Carly glanced at the clock—2:17 AM. Her stomach twisted. Who the hell would be knocking at this hour?

She crept to the peephole, heart pounding.

No one was there.

Goosebumps prickled her arms. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe it was the wind.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Closer this time.

Like whoever—or whatever—was knocking had moved an inch closer to the door.

Carly swallowed. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Her fingers hovered over the lock, but a sudden, bone-deep instinct told her: Don’t open it.

She stepped back.

Then came the whisper.

“Let me in.”

The voice was thin, unnatural, almost… stretched, as if it didn’t belong to a person at all.

Carly’s breath hitched. She backed away slowly, not daring to blink.

A scratching sound started at the bottom of the door. Soft, dragging. Like fingernails scraping against the wood.

“I know you’re in there.”

Her chest tightened. She grabbed her phone with shaking hands and dialed 911.

No signal.

Then—

The doorknob twisted.

Carly stifled a scream. It rattled once, twice—then stopped.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Eventually, the first rays of sunlight crept through the blinds. Carly inched forward, staring through the peephole again.

Nothing.

With trembling hands, she unlocked the door and cracked it open.

The street was empty. No footprints. No sign of anyone.

Only a single note, scrawled in red ink, taped to the door.

It read:

“You did the right thing. Never open the door after dark.”

And beneath it, smeared across the wood—

Four long, bloody scratches.