The Knocking in the Hollow Row

I’ve never been one for the supernatural. I like things in their proper boxes, with labels and explanations. My name is Richard, and I’ve spent my life as a skeptic, a man of science. But there’s one event that refuses to fit neatly into any rational compartment. It happened three years ago, at my Aunt Evelyn’s house in the village of Corvus Hollow, a place that seemed to exist in a perpetual state of twilight, nestled in a valley where the sun rose late and set early.

Aunt Evelyn lived in the last house of a row of five, all built from the same grey, weathered stone, their windows like dark, unblinking eyes. The row was called Hollow Row, and the final house, where she lived, butted up against a thick, ancient forest that seemed to press its dark fingers against the back garden. We had visited only twice before, as she was a solitary woman who preferred the company of her books and her garden. But this particular visit, for her birthday, was meant to be a cheerful occasion.

We were sitting around the heavy oak table, the remnants of a hearty roast dinner before us. The warmth of the fireplace crackled, and the conversation was light. My cousin, Lena, was telling a story about her job in the city, and my aunt was smiling, her eyes crinkling with amusement. That’s when it happened. Three loud, deliberate bangs on the wall behind us, the wall that separated Aunt Evelyn’s house from the one next door. The sound was so forceful that the plates rattled, and a framed photograph on the sideboard tilted askew.

Everyone froze. The conversation died. Lena’s fork hovered mid-air. I looked at the wall, then at Aunt Evelyn, whose smile had not wavered. ‘Don’t mind that,’ she said, her voice calm and even. ‘The house next door is empty.’ She reached for her wine glass as if nothing had happened. I wanted to ask more, but the moment passed, and we resumed our dinner, though a subtle tension lingered in the air.

After dessert, we had just pushed our chairs back when the bangs returned. This time, they were not just on the wall but seemed to come from directly above us, as if someone on the second floor had stomped their foot three times in rapid succession. The sound was so loud, so visceral, that my heart hammered against my ribs. My aunt’s expression remained unchanged, but her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t place. ‘Honestly,’ she said, her voice taking on a slightly strained edge, ‘that house is empty, and the one beyond it is too. No one has lived there in years.’

My skepticism wouldn’t let it go. I pushed back from the table, my chair scraping the floor. ‘Aunt Evelyn, with all due respect, that sounded like someone trying to get our attention. I’d like to check it out.’ She looked at me for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, she nodded. ‘Take a torch from the drawer. Go out through the back garden. You’ll see.’

I grabbed a heavy flashlight from the kitchen drawer and stepped out into the damp night air. The garden was overgrown, and I had to push through tall grass and brambles to reach the fence that separated the properties. The fence was old and rotten, and I easily pushed it open. The neighbouring garden was a tangle of weeds and dead bushes, and the house loomed before me, its windows black and hollow. The back door was ajar, swinging slightly in the wind, its hinges groaning.

I stepped inside, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the darkness. The kitchen was coated in a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs draped the corners like funeral shrouds. The air was stale and cold, far colder than it should have been for a late summer night. I moved through the rooms, my footsteps echoing too loudly on the bare floorboards. The furniture was all covered with white sheets, giving each piece a ghostly form. I called out, ‘Is anyone here?’ but the only answer was the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet.

As I reached the foot of the stairs, I noticed something odd: three fresh-looking scratches on the wooden banister, as if someone had dragged their fingers down the wood. The marks were still light, not darkened by age. I climbed the stairs, my heart thudding in my ears. The hallway at the top had a single closed door. I hesitated, but the memory of those bangs spurred me on. I turned the knob slowly, pushing the door open.

The room was bare except for a single wooden chair in the center, facing the wall. On the wall, in large, crude letters, was written: ‘YOU ARE IN THE WRONG HOUSE.’ I stared at it, my breath caught in my throat. Then, I heard it again: three bangs, this time right behind me, so close that I felt the air move. I spun around, but the room was empty. The bangs seemed to have come from the wall itself, as if something inside the walls was trying to get out.

I stumbled backward, my flashlight shaking. I fled the room, down the stairs, and through the back door, not stopping until I was back in Aunt Evelyn’s kitchen, gasping for breath. Aunt Evelyn and Lena were waiting at the table, their faces pale under the dim light.

‘What did you see?’ Aunt Evelyn asked, her voice almost a whisper.

I told them about the writing, the scratches, the bangs. Aunt Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she said. ‘That house has been empty for twenty years. But the banging started three months ago. I hear it every night now, always in threes. I’ve had the police, the council, everyone out here. But they find nothing. The walls are solid brick. There is no one in there.’

She paused, then added, ‘I’ve also found those marks on my own banister. And sometimes, when I walk past the mirror in the hallway, I see a woman standing in the reflection of the garden, even though no one is there.’ Her voice trembled slightly. ‘I’m moving away next month. This house is not safe.’

Lena and I exchanged glances, and for the first time, I had no scientific explanation. We stayed the night, but I didn’t sleep. At 3:33 AM, I heard it again: three distinct knocks on my bedroom door. I didn’t answer. I just lay there, staring at the door, until the sun rose and the birds began to sing.

I’ve never been back to Corvus Hollow. Aunt Evelyn moved to a flat in the city, and she never spoke of it again. But sometimes, in the dead of night, in my own house, I’ll hear three knocks – on the wall, on the door, on the window. And I know, with a cold certainty, that whatever was in that empty house is not confined to one place. It follows, and it announces itself in threes, waiting for the moment I make the mistake of answering.