Knock-Knock
a story about deciding to answer
This was written for the 30 Days of Fright Writing Challenge, prompt 3: a locked room that is supposed to be empty.
This is a flash fiction story of under 1000 words. It’s more my usual melancholy fare than “fright,”
Knock-Knock
“Whose room is on the other side of that door?” I asked.
“Oh,” the nurse said as he went through the routine of doling out my pain meds, marking my clipboard, “that’s locked. That doesn’t connect. It’s just an old storage closet.”
After he left, I sat up in bed trying to read a book. That’s what you spend a lot of time doing when you’re in hospice, unless you like to watch TV or scroll the internet. Often, if I feel up to it, I walk out in the gardens. After all, these are the last spring blooms I’ll ever see. They have peonies and irises, a whole poppy patch for remembrance. A circular stone walkway and a fountain. It’s nice.
I couldn’t focus on the book. I got out of bed and approached the door. I tried the knob, but it didn’t budge. If there really wasn’t a room on the other side, then why did I hear soft footsteps behind the door at night, and why was there a white glow seeping from underneath, as if someone over there had turned on a light?
***
My mother hung around for a long time that day. We played Scrabble and walked outside. I didn’t tell her about the door.
I get so tired after I have visitors that I need a nap. Every time, I wonder if they’re wondering if I’ll wake up again, or if this will be the last time. I guess it’s hard to say.
The evening nurse, Betsy, let me see what’s next to my room. We stood out in the hallway and I saw that it’s nothing but a small staff restroom. No patient room. No door attached to mine.
“Sometimes the pain meds make people imagine things,” she said sympathetically. “Or have weird dreams.”
I nodded. I like Betsy.
But that night, I woke up in the dark, the moonlight peeking through the curtains enough for everything to be outlined in shadowy blues. The desk, the bookshelves, the comfy chair.
The door. I heard a noise like a sigh, and then a soft knock-knock.
Not a knock made by human knuckles, but like someone just using their fingertips.
I didn’t dare get out of bed at night, when I was feeling weak and disoriented, so I called out quietly, “Hello?”
No answer. But I could sense a presence there behind the door, you know what I mean?
Then there was the light again, showing through the crack under the door, but partly blocked by a shadow as if someone, or something, were standing right on the other side.
And a wisp of music, too. A song that was one of my favorites long ago, but that I’d forgotten.
I know what’s behind the door now. There’s only one thing coming for me, after all. That’s why I’m in this place.
***
I don’t talk about the door anymore with the nurses. And certainly not with my mom.
It’s my door. Only for me. When the time is right.
The other night I woke to the two knocks. It was a little louder this time, a little more insistent. I had felt really bad all day. The pain meds were barely working. My body felt light and brittle like it was turning into paper. But like paper that would soon crack into a hundred pieces and blow away on the wind, or paper that would absorb water, become heavy and drown under the waves?
Knock-knock.
I’ve started imagining what It—She, I like to think—will look like. I don’t think She’ll wear the traditional black hooded robe or have a skeletal face. Some might say She’ll appear as my old granny and take my hand. I doubt it.
I imagine Her as a dark butterfly, soft and shimmering. She’ll envelop me in her shadowy indigo wings, put me into my very own chrysalis where, like a caterpillar, I’ll melt down until only my very essential essence is left.
And then maybe that essence will transform and emerge again, somewhere, someday.
It’s hard to say.
I slipped out of bed and approached the door this time. Put my hands against the wood. “I’m still here,” I whispered. “Soon.”
I wonder, when the time comes, will She open the door, or will I?
***
Now there are more bad days than good. I haven’t been able to get out to the garden. I sleep a lot.
I look at the locked door often. I want to see and feel Her velvet wings. Will my dead eyes still see?
Maybe it’s a different kind of seeing altogether.
They gave me extra pain meds. I want to finish reading this book, but I get so tired. My mom looked so old today, so worn-out, worn-down.
I’ve written letters, I’ve said euphemistic goodbyes, I’ve cried for what I’ll be missing. It’s exhausting. And the past? I’ve either let it go, or incorporated it into who I am, to the best of my ability. Those extremes are the only two choices.
Maybe tonight, when the light glows under the locked door, and the soft music drifts in, and she knocks with her feathery butterfly feet. Maybe I’ll answer. Maybe the door will be unlocked, the knob will finally turn.
It’s hard to say.
If you’re interested in this 30 horror-writing challenge, or reading other stories by other writers in the challenge, it’s hosted by
so you should check it out!If you liked this flash story, you might also like the subject matter of Coming Home.
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I posted the link in the Day 3 chat.
Heart-wrenching and beautiful…and somehow, comforting. Loved this!