The Hollow Knocking

I never paid much attention to the Vasquez family. They were the kind of neighbors who kept to themselves, their curtains always drawn, their voices rarely heard beyond a muffled argument. We lived in a government housing block, a monotonous grid of identical apartments, each floor hosting four units. Ours was 3B, theirs was 3C. For three years, we coexisted in a state of polite indifference.

Then, Mr. Vasquez died last November. A heart attack, they said, in his sleep. It was sudden, sobering. My parents and I attended the funeral, offering our condolences to his widow, Elena, and her two daughters, Sofia and Camila. Elena was a thin, pale woman with haunted eyes, and the girls, aged twelve and nine, clung to her like shadows. After that, things began to unravel.

It started with noises. At first, we dismissed them as grief-induced restlessness. But soon, the sounds became more distinct: shouts, cries, and the frantic scuttling of furniture being dragged across the floor. Worst of all were the nights. Every Thursday, my father worked the graveyard shift, returning home around 2 or 3 AM. Without fail, on those nights, my mother and he would pass by 3C and find the door wide open, the interior pitch black, and the family standing in the hallway, their faces pale and blank, as if waiting for something. This went on for three weeks, until one day, a moving truck appeared, and the Vasquez family was gone.

We were relieved. Peace, at last. But the peace was short-lived. A week later, I was on the phone with a friend, standing in the corridor outside my front door, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was around 11 PM, and the building was quiet. Then I heard it: a loud, rhythmic bashing, coming from 3C. It sounded like a heavy fist or a blunt object striking the door from the inside. Each bang was so forceful that the door rattled in its frame. My heart skipped a beat. The house was empty. The utilities were off. No one should be in there.

I ended the call and stood frozen, listening. The bashing continued, relentless, like something trying to get out. I thought about calling the police, but what would I say? A haunted apartment? I crept closer to the door, my hand trembling. I pressed my ear against the cool metal. The bashing stopped. In the silence, I heard a faint, desperate whisper from inside: ‘Let us out.’ It was a child’s voice, pleading.

I stumbled back, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I tried to rationalize it: a stray animal, a prank, a pipe. But the voice was unmistakably human. I ran to my apartment and slammed the door, locking it. My parents were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them. I slept with the lights on that night.

The next day, I decided to investigate. The Vasquez apartment was under a sealed lease, not yet rented out. I managed to obtain a spare key from the building manager, Mr. Okafor, claiming I had left something behind. He handed it over reluctantly, noting that the gas and electricity were off. As I unlocked the door, a stale, musty odor wafted out. I stepped inside. The apartment was bare: no furniture, no curtains, just dust and the faint smell of decay. The walls were scuffed, with scratches running along the baseboards. In the living room, I noticed a dark stain on the carpet, roughly the size of a body. My heart raced.

I made my way to the bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open slowly. The room was empty except for a child’s drawing pinned to the wall. It showed a stick figure family holding hands, with a large, shadowy figure looming over them. Below, in crayon, were the words: ‘It comes at 3 AM.’ A chill ran down my spine. That was the time my father came home.

Suddenly, I heard a noise from the closet. A soft clicking, like fingernails on wood. I froze. The closet door was slightly open, revealing a sliver of darkness. I stepped back, but curiosity got the better of me. I reached out and swung the door open. Inside, a small, tarnished music box sat on the floor. It was playing a faint, lullaby-like melody. As I reached for it, the music stopped, and a voice, deeper and older than the child’s, emanated from the closet: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

I ran. I slammed the door behind me, sprinting back to my apartment. I didn’t stop until I was inside, locked, and panting. But when I looked out the peephole, the door to 3C was open. A shadowy figure stood in the dim hallway, its features obscured. It slowly turned its head towards my door. Then, it vanished.

That night, at 3 AM, I heard the bashing again, but this time, it was coming from my own front door. I peeked through the peephole. Nothing. The corridor was empty. But the bashing continued, harder, louder. My mother woke up, startled. ‘What is that noise?’ she asked. I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed with fear.

The next morning, we filed a complaint with the building manager. But when he inspected 3C, he found nothing. The door was still locked. The apartment was empty. He dismissed it as noise from the construction site nearby. But he couldn’t explain the scratch marks that had appeared on the inside of our door, or the small, childlike handprints that now covered the walls of our hallway.

As the days passed, the noises grew more frequent. Voices whispering in our walls, footsteps in the attic, the music box lullaby drifting through the vents. We tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. Then, one night, my father saw it. He was coming home from his shift, and as he entered the building, he saw a figure standing in the stairwell. It was tall, gaunt, dressed in a tattered suit. It looked at him with hollow, black eyes and said, ‘You see them too.’ My father dropped his keys and ran.

We knew we had to leave. But the moment we stepped outside, the door would slam shut, and the banging would start again. We were trapped. Trapped with whatever the Vasquez family had left behind.

I remembered the drawing: ‘It comes at 3 AM.’ It wasn’t a warning. It was a schedule. And at 3 AM, something would come to our door. So, one night, I stayed up, waiting. At exactly 3 AM, the banging began. I approached the door, my heart pounding. I placed my hand on the wood. The banging stopped. A voice, soft and childlike, whispered through the crack: ‘Will you let us in? We need a new home.’

I backed away, tears streaming down my face. I realized then that the Vasquez family hadn’t fled. They had been trying to escape something, and they had failed. And now, it was our turn. The banging resumed, more frantic, more desperate. And from the other side, I heard a woman’s voice, Elena’s voice, sobbing, ‘Please, let us out. It’s still in here.’ But I knew it was too late. The hollow knocking had found a new target, and it would never stop until we, too, were gone.