The Door That Shouldn’t Be

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 there. Emma was certain it hadn’t been there when she first viewed the place. The estate agent had walked her through every inch, pointing out the period features, the “charming” creaky floorboards, and the dodgy boiler that she’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 cool wood. The paint was a shade darker than the rest of the flat’s white walls, like it had been added 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, stepping back. “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. But something about it gnawed at her.

And 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.

Three precise knocks. Always starting at 3:13 AM. Never a second earlier, never a second later.

Emma started leaving the hallway light on, watching the door from the safety of her bedroom. Nothing changed—just the knocking. Relentlessly precise. Patient. Like whatever was behind it could wait forever.

She called the landlord the next day.

“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 knew it 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 AM.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed a hammer from the toolbox she hadn’t finished unpacking and marched over to the door. “Who’s there?” she demanded, raising the hammer.

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 with a clang. “No. No, no, no.” Emma grabbed her coat and keys and bolted 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 long time, 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 walls, Emma heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.