The Cane That Taps Twice

My name is Elias, and I don’t usually talk about what happened at the old Riverton Exchange. But I’ve read enough stories on this forum to know that some things need to be told, even if they don’t make sense. I was working the night shift at a small insurance claims office on the second floor of a half-empty building. The ground floor had a bakery, a hair salon, and a shuttered florist. Most offices above closed by six, so by the time my shift started at ten, the place was a tomb.

The building was an old Victorian-style structure, all creaking floorboards and peeling wallpaper. It was surrounded by overgrown rhododendrons and a massive oak tree that scraped its branches against the windows on windy nights. The only light in the hallway came from a single flickering fluorescent tube, and the stairs were a death trap of loose carpet and uneven steps.

I wasn’t scared easily. I’d walk the hallway to the break room, passing the dim rows of office doors with their brass nameplates gone dark. But there was one thing that started bothering me about two weeks in: the sound of a cane tapping on the floor. It would start down at the main entrance, a slow, deliberate tap-tap, tap-tap, like someone taking their time on the stairs. Then it would move along the second-floor corridor, growing louder, passing my office door, and then fading away. At first, I thought it was a security guard or a maintenance guy, but when I asked around, nobody knew anything. The security guards were young guys who didn’t carry canes.

One night, I decided to look. I opened my door just as the tapping reached its loudest point, right outside my office. The hallway was empty. The sound stopped immediately, and I felt a cold draft that smelled like old books and decay. I chalked it up to my imagination, but the tapping came back every night, same time, same rhythm.

One evening, I had to stay late to finish a report. It was past midnight, and the building was even more silent than usual. The only sound was the hum of my computer and the occasional creak of the building settling. Then I heard it: the tapping, but this time it was different. It was faster, almost frantic, and it was heading straight for my office. I froze, my hands on the keyboard, watching the door. The tapping stopped right outside, and then I heard a low, guttural whisper: ‘Open.’

I didn’t move. The whisper came again, more insistent: ‘Open.’ The doorknob began to turn slowly, and I heard the cane bang against the wood. Something was trying to get in. I grabbed a letter opener from my desk, my heart pounding. The doorknob stopped, and then I heard a series of taps moving away, as if it had given up. But then I noticed something on the floor beneath the door: a small, yellowed piece of paper had been slid under. I picked it up. It was a rent receipt, dated 1972, for a tenant named ‘Mr. Ashworth.’

I went to the building manager the next day. He was an old man named Carmichael, and he seemed uncomfortable when I mentioned the tapping. He told me that I’d heard nothing, that it was just the building’s pipes. But his eyes betrayed him. I pushed, and he finally told me: In the early seventies, a blind violin teacher named Mr. Ashworth had his studio on the second floor, right where my office was now. He was beloved, but he died in a fire that started in his studio. The fire was caused by an old heater, but some said it was arson, set by a jealous rival. His body was found with his cane, but the cane was never recovered. The building had been renovated since, but these things linger.

The tapping continued, and I began to lose sleep. I started seeing a figure in the reflections of my computer screen: a thin man in a worn suit, holding a cane. He would just stand there, not moving, but his eyes were dark holes. I started keeping the lights on, but the darkness seemed to seep in anyway. One night, I fell asleep at my desk and woke to the tapping, louder than ever, and the doorknob was shaking violently. I heard a voice that was not a whisper but a full, rasping growl: ‘You took my seat.’

I ran out of the office, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. I didn’t stop until I was home. I quit the next day, but the tapping follows me. Sometimes, at night, I hear it in my apartment hallway, slow and patient, stopping right outside my door. I haven’t opened it since. But I know one day I’ll have to, and when I do, I’ll see him standing there, holding that cane, ready to take back what’s his. Maybe this story is a warning, or maybe it’s a confession. But if you ever hear a cane tapping twice, don’t be curious. Run.