The Midwatch Visitor

My name is Elias, and I have always been a creature of the dark. While the world slept, I thrived in the quiet hours, my sanctuary a cramped flat on the third floor of an old building in the outskirts of Prague. The apartment was a relic of a bygone era, with high ceilings and a musty smell that no amount of airing could dispel. I had no job, no friends to speak of, only my aging desktop computer and a stack of books that I had read a hundred times. My routine was simple: sleep until the late afternoon, then rise to the ticking of the clock as the sun dipped below the horizon, and spend the night lost in digital worlds or the pages of forgotten lore.

It was during one of those endless nights, with the city’s hum reduced to a distant murmur, that the knocking began. Three sharp raps at my door, each one deliberate and spaced exactly a second apart. I froze, my eyes darting to the clock – 2:47 AM. My heart thudded against my ribs, but I reasoned it was my landlady, Mrs. Novak, who sometimes had trouble sleeping and would ask for a cup of sugar or to borrow a tool. With a sigh, I rose from my creaky chair and padded to the door, my bare feet cold on the worn linoleum. I opened it, expecting to see her frazzled gray hair and dressing gown, but the hallway was empty. The dim bulb at the end of the corridor flickered, casting ghostly shadows, but there was no sign of anyone. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to a prank by the college students next door, and returned to my computer.

The knocking returned a few nights later, same time, same three knocks. I opened the door again, but nothing. This time, a chill ran down my spine, not just from the draft. Over the next weeks, it became a recurring event, sometimes after days, sometimes after weeks. Each time, I would open the door to nothing, the silence pressing in around me. I began to dread the sound, my sleep even more fractured than usual. I tried to ignore it, but the knocks grew more insistent, louder, and more frequent. I even considered moving, but my finances were tight, and I convinced myself it was just my imagination, a trick of the restless night.

One particularly cold November night, as the wind howled outside and the radiator clanked in protest, the knocking came again. But this time, it was different. There was a frantic urgency to it, a desperation that made my blood run cold. I approached the door with a growing sense of dread, my hand trembling as I reached for the knob. I pulled it open, and the hallway was empty as before. But this time, I noticed something on the floor – a small, crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up, my fingers numb. Unfolding it, I saw a single word scrawled in jagged handwriting: ‘LEAVE’.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I packed a bag and went to stay with an old acquaintance outside the city. I told myself it was just a break, but I never went back. I never learned who or what was knocking, but I know now that some doors should never be opened, because what’s behind them might not be empty at all – it might be waiting for you to acknowledge its presence, to invite it in. And once you do, it never leaves.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear it – the echo of three knocks from an empty hallway, a reminder that the darkness is never truly silent, and that some visitors are not meant to be welcomed.