The Fourth Night Knock

It had been nearly three years since I’d moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh. The previous owner, a reclusive widower, had died in his sleep, and the place had sat empty until I bought it at auction. I’d always been drawn to isolation, and the peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards felt like a challenge rather than a warning. My job as a remote data analyst meant I could work from anywhere, and the nearest neighbor was a mile down a dirt road. For a while, it was peaceful. Then, four months ago, I slipped on the icy porch steps and shattered my ankle. The surgery was routine, but the recovery was agonizing. The painkillers they gave me left me in a fog, and my sleep was a black, dreamless void for the first few nights. On the fourth night, the fog had lifted enough that I craved something normal, so I poured a glass of cheap whiskey from the bottle I’d bought before the surgery. It tasted like burnt caramel and regret, but I drank it anyway, hoping it would lull me into a deeper sleep. I closed my bedroom door because the pull chain on the ceiling fan had snapped, and the light would stay on if I wanted the fan to spin. The room was dark save for the sliver of moonlight through the window. I drifted off, a strange mix of exhaustion and artificial calm washing over me. In my dream, I was walking through the marsh behind the house, the wet ground sucking at my boots. The cattails whispered in a wind that didn’t exist. Then, a sound cut through the stillness—four sharp, quick raps, like a knuckle on wood. It wasn’t a knock on my door in the dream; it was as if the world itself was tapping for my attention. I woke with a start, my heart pounding, the echo of the raps still ringing in my ears. I lay still, listening, but the only sound was the crickets outside. I checked my phone: 3:33 AM. I dismissed it as a dream-induced hallucination, a side effect of the whiskey and the pain. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. I lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the sound. I told myself it was just the house settling, the wood contracting in the cool night air. But deep down, I knew. It had a rhythm. It was deliberate. The next night, I forced myself to stay awake, despite the exhaustion from a day of hobbling around on crutches. I turned on the small lamp by my bed, casting a warm glow over the worn patchwork quilt. At 3:33 AM, the raps came again—four quick, sharp knocks on my door, louder this time, more insistent. My blood chilled. I wasn’t dreaming. I fumbled for my phone, checking the time, and then I shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ There was no answer, just silence. I pulled myself out of bed, using the crutches to get to the door. My hand trembled as I turned the knob. The hallway was empty, bathed in the pale moonlight filtering through the high window at the end. The floorboards creaked under my weight as I stepped out, but there was no one. I closed the door, locked it, and tried to calm my racing heart. I told myself it was a prank by some neighborhood kid, but the nearest house was a mile away. Who would come all this way in the dead of night? The next few nights passed without incident. I convinced myself that it had been a one-time thing, a trick of my mind brought on by the medication. But then, the dreams started. Not nightmares, but vivid, unsettling visions of the marsh. I was standing at the edge of the water, and the murky surface rippled, something moving beneath the reeds. A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘They’re coming.’ I’d wake up shaking, drenched in sweat. A week after the first knock, I was in the kitchen making tea when I noticed something odd. The wall by the back door, which had always been bare, now had a faint, dark stain. It looked like a handprint, but it was too large, the fingers elongated. I touched it, and it was cold, as if the wall itself had been refrigerated. I scrubbed it, but it wouldn’t fade. The next night, the knocks returned, but this time they were followed by a soft, scratching sound, like nails on wood. I summoned my courage and put my ear to the door. I heard breathing on the other side, slow and deliberate. I whispered, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The breathing stopped, and then a voice, gravelly and old, said, ‘Let me in.’ I staggered back, my heart hammering. I didn’t sleep that night. I huddled in the corner of my bed, the lamp on, and I didn’t turn it off until dawn. The following day, I called the real estate agent who had sold me the house. I told him what was happening, and he went quiet for a long moment. Then he said, ‘You know about the previous owner, right? He didn’t die of natural causes. The coroner said it was a heart attack, but the locals say he was scared to death. He used to talk about the knocking too.’ I wanted to scream. Why hadn’t he told me this before I bought the place? I hung up, my mind racing. That night, I decided I had to do something. I armed myself with a kitchen knife and sat in the hallway, facing my bedroom door. At 3:33, the knocking came, and I shouted, ‘I know you’re not human. What are you waiting for?’ The knocking stopped, and then the door swung open by itself, hitting the wall with a bang. The hallway was empty, but I felt a presence, a suffocating weight in the air. The knife trembled in my hand. Then I saw it. A shape in the shadows, maybe taller than a man, its form writhing as if made of smoke. It didn’t have a face, but I felt it staring at me. It raised a hand, and I saw the fingers—long, thin, like the handprint on the wall. It pointed at me, and I heard the voice again in my head, soft and mocking: ‘You’ve been here three years. We’ve been waiting.’ I bolted. I threw myself down the stairs, crutches be damned, pain shooting through my ankle, and I fled the house, not stopping until I reached my car. I drove to the nearest town, checked into a motel, and didn’t look back. It’s been a month since that night. I’m still in the motel, my leg healing, my savings dwindling. I haven’t gone back to the farmhouse. I tell myself I’m going to sell it, but I know that won’t stop it. I can still feel its presence, a cold spot at the back of my neck when I’m alone. And last night, I heard it. Four quick, sharp raps on my motel room door. I didn’t answer. I just sat in the dark, clutching my phone, and I didn’t sleep. I don’t know what it wants, but I know it won’t stop. It’s not the house, you see. It’s me. It’s always been me. And I have a feeling that next time, I won’t have anywhere to run.