The Knocker in the Walls

The first time I heard it, I thought it was the wind rattling the pipes. We’d just moved into the old house on Maple Street, the one with the peeling paint and the porch that sagged like a tired old man. My girlfriend, Mira, laughed at my jitters, said it was just the house settling. But the tapping wasn’t random. It was deliberate. A steady rhythm, three knocks, a pause, then two more, always between midnight and four in the morning. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until it would start again. Mira slept through it, or so I thought.

Last night, she started mumbling in her sleep, her voice thick and frightened. ‘Stop it,’ she whimpered. ‘Please, stop.’ I shook her awake, and she sat up, her eyes wide and confused. ‘You were pulling my feet,’ she said, her voice accusing. ‘I thought you were messing with me.’ I told her I hadn’t touched her, but the look on her face was pure terror. She said it’s been happening for weeks, but she always thought it was me. She told me she feels something poke her in the chest, right between her breasts, and sometimes a tug on her feet, like someone is trying to pull her out of bed. And she said that when she wakes up, there are sometimes faint bruises on her ankles, like fingers wrapped around them.

We moved to the living room couch, too scared to stay in the bedroom. I convinced myself it was just a draft, old house, bad insulation. But then I remembered something from my past, something I’d never told anyone. When I was sixteen, I spent a summer working at the old Sinclair Theatre, helping to gut the place before it was turned into a community center. It was a grand old building, with a balcony that was said to be haunted. The workers used to joke about a ‘knocker’ – a spirit that would tap on the walls and ceiling to let you know it was there. I never believed them, until one day I was alone in the basement, and I heard it. Three knocks, a pause, two more. I found a small, rusted box hidden behind a loose brick. Inside was a child’s toy, a small tin soldier, and a note that read, ‘Do not open the door.’ I didn’t think much of it, but I kept the soldier.

I found the soldier in my old box of keepsakes, still wrapped in a cloth. I took it to the bedroom, and placed it on the nightstand. That night, the tapping was louder, more insistent, coming from inside the walls, from behind the closet door. I lay awake, listening, and then I heard a scratching sound, like nails on wood. The closet door creaked open, slowly. Mira screamed, and I turned on the light. The closet was empty, but the soldier was gone. In its place was a small, damp piece of paper with handwriting that looked like it had been scrawled by a child. It read: ‘You found me. Now we play.’

We left that night, went to a motel. But I know it won’t be over. The knocking has followed us. Last night, at the motel, I heard it again – three knocks, a pause, two more – coming from the ceiling. And when I looked at Mira, she was staring at the window, pointing. I turned, and there was a figure, barely visible in the moonlight, its hand pressed against the glass, its fingers tapping out the rhythm. I don’t know what we’ve awakened, but I know it’s not done with us. It’s learning our names, our rhythms, our fears. And it wants to play.