The Seventh Knock

Emily Rhodes first heard the knocking a week after moving into the house on Willow Lane. It came at exactly 3:07 AM—six slow, deliberate taps against her bedroom wall. She had dismissed it at first. Old houses made noise. Maybe it was the pipes, or a tree branch against the siding. But when it happened again the next night, and the next, always stopping at six, a chill settled in her bones. On the fourth night, she pressed her ear against the wall, listening. The knocks were coming from the other side, where no room existed—only a stretch of empty hallway.That morning, she mentioned it to Mrs. Dunbar, the elderly woman who lived across the street. The old woman’s hands trembled as she set her teacup down.

"You didn't answer it, did you?"

Emily shook her head.

Mrs. Dunbar exhaled. "Good. Don’t.

And whatever you do, never wait for the seventh knock."

Emily pressed her for more, but the woman only muttered a prayer and changed the subject. That night, Emily lay awake, counting.

One. Two. Three.

She held her breath.

Four. Five. Six.

Then—silence.

She couldn't explain why it unnerved her so much. It was just knocking, after all. But Mrs. Dunbar’s warning gnawed at her thoughts. By the sixth night, curiosity overpowered fear. She spent the evening researching the house, scrolling through archives and news clippings. Her stomach tightened when she found the article.

"Local Boy Missing: Search Called Off After 7 Days."

The year was 1956. A boy named Thomas Grayson had vanished from his bedroom one stormy night. His parents swore they heard knocking on his wall before he disappeared. The case remained unsolved. Emily’s hands trembled as she shut the laptop.

That night, she stayed up, waiting.

At 3:07 AM, the knocks began.

One. Two. Three.

Her pulse pounded.

Four. Five. Six.

Then—silence. Emily exhaled.

And then— Knock.

A seventh. A slow, deliberate sound that made her skin crawl.

A breath of cold air swept through the room, even though the windows were shut. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, heart hammering.

She heard the softest whisper. A child's voice.

"Help me."

She turned her head toward the sound—and screamed.

A boy stood in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. His small, trembling hands reached toward her.

Emily scrambled backward, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

The boy took a step forward.

"He’s coming," he whispered.

Before she could move, the room plunged into darkness. The knocking started again. But this time, it didn’t stop at six. It kept going.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

A frantic, pounding rhythm that shook the walls. Emily clapped her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face.And then, as suddenly as it began, the knocking stopped.

When she opened her eyes, the boy was gone.

The air in the room was still, heavy.

Emily turned to the wall, running her fingers over the cold surface.

Faintly, as if from another world, she heard a final whisper.

"Not me… him."

A shadow shifted in the hallway beyond her door.

And then—

Knock.

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Epilogue: The Eighth Knock

Days passed, but Emily couldn’t sleep. She stayed with Mrs. Dunbar, refusing to set foot in that house again.

She searched for answers—anything to explain what had happened.

She dug deeper into the town records, scouring old newspapers and police reports. And that’s when she found it.

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"Local Boy Missing: Search Called Off After 7 Days."

She had read that part before. But there was another article. One buried deeper in the archives, almost forgotten.

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"Grayson Family Vanishes Without a Trace – Parents Found Dead in Home."

Emily’s blood ran cold.

The report described how, a week after Thomas disappeared, his parents were found in their bedroom—lifeless. No signs of struggle. No forced entry. The only clue was their wide, frozen eyes, staring at the door.

And the strangest detail: the neighbors reported hearing knocking coming from inside the house.

Eight knocks.

Emily’s hands trembled as she shut the file.

A terrible thought clawed at the edges of her mind.

She had escaped.

But the knocking hadn’t stopped.

That night, as she lay awake in Mrs. Dunbar’s guest room, she listened.

The house across the street loomed in the darkness, its windows hollow and black.

And then,

—Knock.

Her breath caught. Knock. Knock.

She gripped the blankets.