It started with a simple task: cleaning out my closet. It’s one of those things I put off every few months, but this time, I decided to take care of it. My closet’s a mess—old clothes from college, jackets that don’t fit anymore, random things I’ve collected over the years. You know the type.
I reached for a jacket that I hadn’t worn in ages, one that was a bit too small but always reminded me of simpler times—walking around campus, running late for classes, just the usual college life. I pulled it out from the back of the closet, shook off the dust, and noticed something odd.
There was something in one of the pockets. I don’t remember putting anything in it, and I’ve had this jacket for years. I didn’t even know the last time I wore it, but the thought of finding something inside felt… weirdly comforting.
It was a small, folded piece of paper. The kind of paper that felt old and familiar but still a little crisp. I unfolded it, half expecting to find some stupid receipt or an old ticket from a concert I’d forgotten about. But instead, it was a note, written in my handwriting.
I froze.
It wasn’t the kind of note I would have written recently—it was my handwriting from years ago. But I’m certain I didn’t write this. The words were clear, precise, and strangely calm. Here’s what it said:
“Do not open the door at 3:23 AM. Don’t listen to the knock.”
My blood ran cold. I didn’t even know what to think. I looked at the clock. It was 3:22 AM.
I checked the time again. 3:22 AM.
How could this note have been written by me? I haven’t written anything like this in years. I couldn’t remember ever making a note like this, and yet—there it was, in my handwriting, in my jacket pocket, as if it had been placed there just moments ago.
I stared at the paper for what felt like an eternity. The smell of old leather and paper in the room suddenly felt too thick, like the air was closing in on me. I thought about tossing the note, throwing it away, or burning it. But something made me keep reading.
“I’m not joking. The knock will come. It will be faint at first, but it will get louder. Don’t answer the door. It’s not you on the other side.”
That part didn’t even make sense. It made my head hurt just reading it.
But before I could even make sense of it, the strangest thing happened. I heard it.
A knock.
I know it sounds crazy, but it wasn’t just any knock—it was like someone was tapping on my door, just hard enough for me to hear but soft enough that it almost sounded like I imagined it. I looked up, my heart pounding, and checked the time again: 3:23 AM.
There it was, just like the note said. My mind raced, trying to rationalize it. Maybe it’s a neighbor. Maybe I’m just hearing things.
I stood there frozen for a while, staring at the door, waiting for more knocks, something, anything. But it didn’t come. For a while, the silence was almost unbearable.
And then, I heard it again. This time, it was more deliberate—louder. Almost as if it was an actual person on the other side, someone knocking slowly, methodically, like they knew I was there. But that’s impossible, right?
I’m here alone. No one has keys to my apartment. No one should even know I’m up this late.
I’ve read enough horror stories to know where this is going, but something feels off. This isn’t like any other story I’ve read—this feels personal, like it’s meant for me. That’s what’s scaring me the most right now.
I’m not answering the door. I swear I’m not.
But every time I look at the clock, it’s like I can feel the time slipping by. The knocking hasn’t stopped. It’s still there, faint, rhythmic, almost a whisper at this point. I can’t tell if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or if it’s something… else.
So, here I am. Writing this, because I don’t know who else to tell. I don’t know what to do. The note was right—3:23 AM came and went, and now I’m sitting here in the dark, listening to something I can’t explain.
But if the note was right about that, then what else is true? What else is coming?
I’m scared to find out.
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