Don't Answer the Door in the Evening


The first time it happened, Ethan thought it was a mistake.

A single rap on his apartment door—soft, measured—just after midnight.

Home alone in his 12th-floor apartment in a decaying high-rise, he wasn't expecting visitors. The front entrance of the building was locked up at night, and only people who lived there could ride the elevator up to the higher floors.

Ethan peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty.

Probably a joke. He brushed it off and went back to his couch.

Then it happened again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He looked at his phone this time. The building's security app let tenants see live video from hallway cameras. He opened the feed.

The hallway was empty.

He still got a chill. He double-checked the locks and went to bed.

The next night, the knocks came again. Louder still.

And then—a whisper.

"Ethan. let me in."

His stomach coiled. The voice was nasally and pretentious, sounded like a playback that was speeding too slowly.

He looked in the peephole. Zilch.

But when he looked at the camera feed—the screen was deranged.

For a moment, the hallway lit up dark. When the vision came back, a woman waited just outside his door.

She was barefoot, in a frayed black dress. Long hair covered her face.

Then—the screen began to malfunction once more.

 

And she disappeared.

Ethan barely slept that night.

The next day, he asked at the front desk if anyone had been seen on his floor. The security guard frowned. "Nobody's been up there after 10 p.m. Cameras would've caught it."

That night, Ethan barely breathed as he waited.

At 12:03 a.m., the knocking started again..........

This time, it didn't stop. A slow, rhythmic pounding.

Ethan sat frozen on his couch, watching his phone's camera feed.

Then, through the peephole—movement.

The woman was standing there again.

Only this time, she stood nearer.

Her hair parted away to either side of her face. Her bloodless lips cracking, twisted backward into a grin that was too wide.

And then—without moving her mouth, she said:

"Ethan… open the door."

He jumped back recoiling, pounding heart.

Pounding was loud. The door shook in the frame.

Ethan picked up his phone and called the front desk.

"Somebody's pounding on my door trying to break in!" he snarled.

"Sir," the guard said slowly. "You're alone on that floor. We would have seen somebody come in."

"No, she's here! She's—"

Silence.

The knocking stopped.

He peered through the peephole. Empty hall.

His phone buzzed. A message.

"Motion detected at your front door."

He opened the app. The camera feed flickered… then went black.

And then—three words flashed on the screen.

"LET ME IN."

Ethan barely had time to scream before the screen went to white noise.

The next day, the apartment was empty. The door still locked. No break-in.

No sign of Ethan.

The only reminder he had left was his phone, turned over on the floor. The screen still reflecting the last notification.

Motion detected.

12:03 a.m.

And the footage?

Nothing but an empty corridor.

And then—three soft raps.