The Hollow Knocking of Room 14

I still can’t shake the memory of that night, even though it’s been years. My family had just moved into a sprawling Victorian house that had been converted into apartments. We lived on the third floor, and my room was at the end of a long, narrow hallway. The walls were thin, and the old radiators clanked and sighed like living things. But the worst part was the staircase—a steep, creaky wooden thing that went from the ground floor all the way up to our landing. From my room, I could hear every footstep, every breath, every whispered groan of the wood as someone ascended. And when they reached the top, I could see their shadow stretching under the gap of my door, long and distorted by the dim hall light.

That particular evening, I was lying on my bed, scrolling through my phone, trying to find some old horror movies to stream. It was around 8 PM, and the house had settled into its nightly quiet. My downstairs neighbor, an elderly man named Mr. Abernathy, had just come up from his evening walk. I heard his heavy footsteps on the staircase, each one a distinct thud as he climbed. He paused at our landing, and I saw his silhouette pass under my door, momentarily blocking the light from the hallway. Then he moved on, and I heard his door down the hall click shut. For a few minutes, it was just me and the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen.

But then, without any warning, a frantic knocking erupted on my door. It wasn’t a polite tap-tap; it was a violent, desperate pounding, as if someone was slamming their fists against the wood, trying to break it down. The sound was so loud it shook the door in its frame. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. I waited for the shadow to appear under the door, but there was nothing. The hall light remained steady, no silhouette, no movement. Just the relentless knocking, echoing down the hallway. It went on for what felt like an eternity, then stopped as abruptly as it had started. I was too terrified to move, too scared to open the door. I just lay there, staring at the door, my breath held, listening to the silence that followed.

When I finally mustered the courage to check, I crept to the door and peered through the keyhole. The hallway was empty, the light flickering slightly as if it had just been disturbed. There was no one there. I opened the door slowly, half expecting to see some malevolent presence, but there was nothing. I called out, my voice trembling, but only the echo of my own words came back. I never found an explanation for that knocking. The next day, I asked Mr. Abernathy if he had heard anything, but he said he had been asleep since nine. When I mentioned the incident to the landlord, he told me that the room I was in used to be a nursery, and that a child had died there in the 1920s—a little girl named Elsie, who had been locked in her room as punishment and had knocked on the door until her fists were bloody, begging to be let out. They found her the next morning, her hands raw and bruised, her face pressed against the door, cold as the floor. They say her spirit still knocks, waiting for someone to open the door. But I never did. I moved out a month later. But sometimes, in the quiet of my new apartment, I still hear that knocking, faint but unmistakable, and I wonder if it will ever stop.