The Three-Note Knuckle

It began with the job, as these things often do. I was a junior encoder at a logistics firm nestled in the industrial outskirts of Tarlac City, a humid sprawl of warehouses and truck depots. I’d taken the graveyard shift, partly to prove myself, partly because the differential pay was a lifeline. I stayed at my grandmother’s old house in a subdivision named Villa Mercedes, a place of peeling paint and bougainvillea that clawed at the windows. My grandmother had passed years ago, and the house had sat empty, a family relic I was tasked with keeping until the estate was settled. I was alone there, save for the occasional gecko and the creak of settling timber.

One night, I clocked out at 1:17 AM, the time stamp burned into my memory. The drive was short, just three blocks through a maze of identical two-story homes, their windows like blank eyes. I unlocked the wrought-iron gate, its hinges shrieking, and stepped into the cool, still air of the garage. The house exhaled a musty breath as I entered. I didn’t bother with the lights, knowing the layout by heart: the living room, the narrow hallway, the kitchen at the back. I headed straight for the kitchen sink to wash my face, letting the cold water run over my wrists, a trick an old mentor swore by to chase away sleep.

As I bent over the basin, something thudded on the roof directly above me, a single, heavy thud, like a sack of wet sand being dropped. I froze, water dripping from my chin. A cat, I reasoned. Or perhaps a mango from the old tree in the neighbor’s yard; its branches overhung our roof. I waited, the only sound the pulse in my ears. Then, a second thud, closer to the edge. And then a third, softer, as if something had landed and was now… moving. A scrabble, like nails on the terracotta, but too slow, too deliberate.

I dried my face and stared at the ceiling, the paint cracked into a paisley pattern. The scuffling stopped. I waited, minutes that stretched into an eternity, but silence reigned. I convinced myself it was the neighbor’s dog, a stray that sometimes prowled the rooftops. I finished my routine, brushing my teeth with trembling hands, and headed to the spare room at the front of the house, its window overlooking the street. I pulled the curtains shut and lay down, the ceiling fan clicking overhead, its blades stirring the stale air.

I must have dozed off, because I woke with a start to the unmistakable sound of a knock at the front door. Not a hurried knock, but three slow, deliberate raps, the knuckle of a single hand. The clock on my nightstand glowed 3:33 AM. No one visits at this hour. I didn’t move. The knocking came again, exactly the same rhythm. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the living room, pressing my eye to the peephole. The porch light was off, but the streetlamp cast a jaundiced glow. I saw nothing. No one. Just the empty path and the iron gate, which I had locked.

My breath hitched. I flicked on the porch light and saw the gate still secured, the chain in place. But there, on the doormat, was a single, perfect mango. Not from our tree—this one was larger, unbruised, as if placed with care. My skin prickled. I did not open the door. I retreated to the kitchen, my heart hammering, and checked the back door. Locked. The window above the sink—also locked. I stood in the dark kitchen, listening. The scrabble returned, this time from the walls, a hollow, tapping sound that moved from the back rooms toward the front, like a finger dragging across drywall.

I grabbed a kitchen knife, the serrated one, and returned to my room. I didn’t get back into bed; I sat in the corner, back against the wall, watching the window. The tapping stopped at the door to my room. I heard a soft, wet press against the wood, as if something was listening. Then, a voice, barely a whisper, like air through a straw: ‘You’re in my spot.’ I dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor. The voice repeated, this time clearer, a dry, rasping sound: ‘You’re in my spot.’

I wanted to scream, but my throat was sandpaper. I looked around for any object, anything. My eyes landed on an old family photo on the dresser—my grandmother, stern, holding a child. The child’s face had been scratched out, long before I remember, a detail I always found odd. The voice came a third time, now right beside my ear, as if the speaker had slipped under the door. ‘You’re in my spot, grandson.’ A cold, invisible hand pressed against my shoulder. I gasped and shoved myself into the corner, knocking over a stack of books.

Silence. Then, the front door opened, its hinges groaning. I heard footsteps crossing the living room, slow and heavy, dragging something. I grabbed the knife, my hand slick with sweat. The footsteps paused outside my door. The knob began to turn, ever so slowly. I braced myself for the worst. The door creaked open an inch, and I saw a shadow, not human-shaped, but a flickering, dark mass that seemed to crawl over the walls. It spoke again, this time in my grandmother’s voice, a voice I remembered from my childhood, softened with age: ‘I never left, child. I just need you to keep them away.’

Then, the mass lunged. But instead of reaching for me, it swiped at the window, smashing the glass. The cold night air rushed in. The shadow retreated, hissing, and disappeared through the broken pane. I was left shaking, shards of glass at my feet, and a single mango now lying in the middle of the room, its skin split, revealing a pit that was not a pit—it was a human tooth, glistening with saliva.

I didn’t stay. I bolted out the front door, jumped the gate, and ran to a 24-hour convenience store, where I crouched among the soda coolers until dawn. I called in sick the next day. I never returned to that house. I quit my job and moved back to my parents’ home. But even now, years later, whenever I’m alone in a silent room, I’ll hear it—three deliberate knocks, slow and patient, and a whisper that rides the edge of sleep: ‘You’re in my spot.’ And I know, somewhere in Tarlac, that split mango is still waiting, its toothy grin an invitation I have not yet had the courage to answer.