The flat was perfect—at least, that’s
what Emma had thought when she first moved in. Affordable rent, a decent view
of the park, and most importantly, no damp. A rare find in London.
But in the hallway, opposite the bathroom, was a door that
shouldn’t be. Emma was certain it hadn’t been there when she first viewed the
place. The estate agent had walked her through every inch of the floor space,
pointing out the period features, the “charming” creaky floorboards, and the
dodgy boiler that he’d assured Emma was “practically brand new.” But this door…
this door was new.
She stood in front of it, pressing a hand against the wood.
The paint was a shade darker than the rest of the flat’s off-white doors, and
lumpy in patches, like it had been applied in a hurry. She rattled the handle.
It didn’t budge. No keyhole, no markings—just a plain, inexplicable door where
there shouldn’t be one.
Emma frowned. “Weird,” she muttered to herself.
Over the next few days, she tried to ignore it. She told
herself it must’ve been there all along, that she’d simply overlooked it in her
excitement about the move.
Then, the knocking started.
It came late at night, soft and rhythmic.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Emma sat bolt upright in bed the first time she heard it.
She held her breath, listening. Maybe it was the neighbours. These old flats
had thin walls, and sound carried.
But no. It was coming from inside. From that door.
She didn’t sleep much that night.
The next morning, she approached it cautiously, pressing her
ear against the wood. Silence. Maybe she’d imagined it. Stress and moving
fatigue could do that, right?
By the next night, she knew she hadn’t imagined anything.
Tap. Tap. Tap. At 3:13 AM.
Emma started leaving the hallway light on, watching the door
from the safety of her bedroom. Nothing changed—just the knocking. Relentlessly
precise. Three precise knocks. Always starting at 3:13. Never a second earlier,
never a second later.
She called the landlord in the morning. “There’s a door in
my hallway,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It wasn’t there before.”
A pause. Then, “What door?”
Emma’s grip tightened on the phone. “The one opposite the
bathroom. It’s locked, and… I think someone might be—” She hesitated, feeling
ridiculous. “Knocking.”
The landlord sighed, like he’d heard it all before. “That
flat’s been empty a while. Maybe you’re hearing things. Old buildings creak.”
“But it’s not creaking,” Emma insisted. “It’s knocking.”
A longer pause. “I’ll send someone round,” the landlord said,
but Emma suspected the comment was just to get her off the phone.
That night, she stayed up again, staring at the door. The
clock ticked over to 3:13.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed a hammer from a
toolbox she hadn’t finished unpacking and marched over to the door. “Who’s
there?” she demanded, raising it in her hand.
No answer.
She swung. The hammer struck the wood with a dull thud… but
instead of splintering, it felt… wrong. Like hitting something soft beneath the
surface. Something that moved.
She backed away slowly, dropping the hammer. “No!” Emma
grabbed her coat and keys and hurried out of the flat, leaving the door behind.
When she returned the next morning, dreading what she might
find, the door was gone. The wall was smooth, freshly painted. No sign it had
ever existed.
She stood there for a while, staring at the empty space.
Later, when she called the landlord again, he insisted there
had never been a door.
And at 3:13 AM that night, from somewhere within the hall wall,
Emma heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
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