The Hollow Tap

The first time I heard it, I thought a branch had snapped loose in the storm and slapped against my window. But that night, the sky was clear, and the tap came again—a sharp, deliberate knock against the glass, like a knuckle rapping three times. I was twelve, and my father had just moved us to the old caretaker’s cottage at the edge of Drowning Marsh, a place where the fog rolled in off the water and the trees creaked like tired bones.

My room was in the attic, a narrow space with a dormer window that looked out over the marsh. Across the yard stood a dead oak, its branches hanging like skeletal fingers. The tap came every night at exactly 9:47, always on the second pane of the window, always three times. I told myself it was a bat, or maybe a moth with a death wish. But the sound was too solid, too deliberate.

I mentioned it to my father over breakfast one morning, trying to sound casual. He was a practical man, a retired carpenter who believed in fixing things with his hands. ‘Probably a loose shutter,’ he said, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. That afternoon, he checked the window, the roof, even the tree. Nothing. That night, he set a ladder against the house and waited in the shadows below. At 9:47, the tap came, and he saw nothing—no bird, no prankster, just the sound, as if the air itself had knocked.

He came inside looking pale, and for the first time, he didn’t have an explanation. ‘Maybe it’s just the house settling,’ he said, but we both knew that was a lie. The tapping continued for weeks, always punctual, always three knocks. I started sleeping with my head under the pillow, but the sound seemed to penetrate the feathers, finding its way into my dreams. In those dreams, I would see a hand pressed against the glass from outside—long, bony fingers, the skin gray and mottled, nails cracked like old pottery. And behind it, a face, half-formed, with eyes like holes burned in paper.

The tapping grew more insistent as spring turned to summer. It started to come earlier, sometimes in the late afternoon, and it would tap in patterns, as if trying to communicate. I began to tap back, hesitantly, on the wood of the window frame. One evening, I tapped twice, and the thing outside tapped three times. Then it tapped once, and I tapped once. We had a conversation like that, me and the unseen visitor, until my hand went numb and I stopped.

One night, the tapping woke me at 3 a.m. I groggily looked at the window, and there it was—a shadow, tall and thin, standing just outside on the branch of the dead oak that had grown closer over the months. It pressed its palm against the glass, and I saw that the hand was not gray but black, like polished coal, and it left a greasy smear on the pane. I screamed, and my father burst in, but by the time he looked, the branch was empty.

The next day, I told my father I wanted to leave. He tried to reassure me, but he was clearly shaken. He called a friend who knew about old houses, and the friend told us that the cottage had a history—a woman had drowned in the marsh years ago, and her spirit was said to wander. He said the tapping was her way of asking for help, or perhaps to be left alone.

That night, I decided to open the window. I don’t know why, but the tapping had become familiar, almost comforting. I unlatched the window and swung it out, letting the damp night air fill the room. I waited, but there was no tap. Instead, a cold wind blew in, carrying the smell of rot and damp earth. I leaned out, trying to see if anyone was below, and that’s when I saw it—a figure standing at the edge of the marsh, barely visible in the mist, its arm raised as if in a silent greeting. It was the same shape I’d seen on the branch, and as I stared, it began to walk toward the water, step by step, sinking into the blackness until only its head remained, then nothing.

I never told my father what I saw. He had already packed his tools to repair the window, and that weekend, we moved back to the city. But sometimes, even now, when I lie in bed at night, I hear three taps on my window. And I never look. I close my eyes and pull the covers up, and I pray to whatever god is listening that the hollow tap is just my imagination. But I know, deep down, that it’s not—it’s still there, waiting, patient, and one day, it will find a way in.