The Knocker’s Lullaby

I was a sophomore at Dunsinane University, a sprawling campus of moss-covered stone and ivy-choked towers, nestled in the damp hills of the Pacific Northwest. The dormitory, Thorne Hall, was a relic from the 1920s, its corridors smelling of old wood, dust, and something faintly sweet, like rotting flowers. I shared a corner room on the third floor with three other students: Marcus, a lanky pre-med who snored like a chainsaw; Priya, a quiet art major who painted murals on her side of the wall; and Devon, a theater kid who practiced monologues at 2 a.m. We were an odd quartet, but we got along.

Our first week was a haze of unpacking, orientation, and late-night ramen. We’d sit on the worn carpet, trading stories about our hometowns, our majors, our fears. One night, after a particularly long session of gossip, I was too exhausted to climb the creaky bunk bed I’d claimed. So I dragged my mattress onto the floor, tossing my sheets into a tangled heap. Marcus, equally lazy, did the same beside me. Priya and Devon had already retreated to their beds, and the room fell into a shallow, uneasy silence, broken only by the hum of the ancient radiator and Marcus’s rhythmic breathing.

I lay on my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling, my mind drifting. Just as I felt the heavy pull of sleep, a knock came at the door. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I blinked, my heart skipping. I glanced at the door, but no one stood there—at least, no shadow under the crack. I figured it was a prank, or maybe a resident advisor doing a check. I ignored it, closing my eyes. But the knock came again, softer this time, almost hesitant. Then a voice, muffled but clear, drifted through the wood: ‘Hey… are you still awake? Could you open the door?’

The voice was unfamiliar, yet it had a strange intimacy, like it knew me. My name—my full name, the one only my family used—slipped out in a whisper: ‘Aiden… please, let me in.’ A chill shot down my spine. I was too tired to process it, too groggy to be properly scared. I mumbled, ‘Yeah, I’m awake,’ but I didn’t move. The knocking persisted, a gentle patter, like fingertips on glass. ‘Aiden, it’s cold out here. Just a moment, that’s all I ask.’ The voice was patient, almost melodic, and it lulled me into a half-dream state. I felt my eyelids growing heavy, and I let them close, the knocking and the voice fading into a distant rhythm, like a lullaby.

When I woke, the gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds. Marcus was still snoring beside me. I sat up, rubbing my neck, and looked at the door. No one was there, of course. I chalked it up to a vivid dream—my mind playing tricks after a long day. But over the next few weeks, the knocking became a recurring nightmare. It happened every time I slept on the floor, which became more frequent as I found the lower bunk more comfortable. The voice would call my name, always in that soft, beseeching tone, always asking to be let in. I never opened the door, but I never fully woke either. I started to dread the floor, yet I felt an inexplicable pull to it, as if the mattress were a magnet.

One night, I decided to confront it. Instead of answering, I forced myself to stay alert, my eyes fixed on the door. The knock came, three times, and then the voice: ‘Aiden, I know you’re awake. I can see the light under your door. Please, I forgot my key.’ I didn’t respond. The voice shifted, becoming more insistent, almost desperate. ‘Aiden, you’re not like the others. You can help me. Open the door, and I’ll tell you a secret.’ I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I grabbed my phone, shining its light at the door. The crack at the bottom showed nothing—no feet, no shadow. But the voice continued, growing even softer, as if it were whispering right next to my ear. ‘Don’t you remember? We used to play together. In the old dorm. You called me June.’

The name hit me like a punch. June. It was a name I hadn’t heard since I was a child, a name that belonged to a girl I’d known in the summer of second grade. She’d lived next door at my grandmother’s house. She’d vanished one rainy afternoon, and no one ever spoke of her again. I’d buried that memory so deep that I’d forgotten it entirely until now. My heart pounded. I turned to wake Marcus, but he was deep in sleep, and when I looked back at the door, the knob was slowly turning. I watched in horror, frozen, as the lock clicked open. The door creaked inward, and a figure stood there—a girl my age, with wet, dark hair plastered to her face, and skin so pale it was almost translucent. She smiled, and her eyes were black, like empty sockets. ‘You let me in,’ she said, her voice the same, but now dripping with malice. ‘Finally.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. Marcus bolted upright, shouting, ‘What the hell?’ The girl took a step into the room, and the air turned icy. Priya and Devon were awake now, screaming too, but the girl paid them no attention. She walked straight to me, knelt down, and whispered, ‘It took you so long, Aiden. You were always my favorite.’ Then she reached out, and her fingers brushed my cheek, and I felt a cold that burned. I woke up on the floor, gasping, the morning light stinging my eyes. The door was closed. The knocking was gone. But there was a wet handprint on the inside of the door, and my name was written in the condensation on the window, in letters that looked like they were drawn by a child.

From that night on, I never slept on the floor again. I talked to my roommates, and they all confirmed they’d heard nothing—but they’d seen my terror, and they’d seen the handprint. We tried to rationalize it, blaming a prank or a leak, but we knew. Something had come through that door, and it had called me by a name I’d never told anyone. I still live with that fear. I’ve moved to a new apartment, far from Thorne Hall, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a knock on my door. Three slow, deliberate knocks. And a voice, soft and familiar, asking, ‘Aiden, are you still awake? Let me in.’ I never answer. But I know that one day, I might not have a choice.