It started with three knocks.
Not loud knocks.
Three slow, deliberate taps against the front door.
Knock.
A pause.
Knock.
Another pause.
Knock.
It was 1:14 in the morning.
Megan was sitting on the couch watching television when she heard them. She lived alone in a small rental house at the end of a quiet road. There were only four other houses nearby, and everyone on the street knew each other.
At least, she thought they did.
She muted the television.
Nothing.
She waited.
Then came another three knocks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Megan got up and walked toward the door.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
She looked through the peephole.
The porch was empty.
The motion light was on, illuminating the steps and the driveway beyond them.
Nobody was there.
She checked the side windows.
Nothing.
She told herself it was probably a branch hitting the door.
Then her phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unknown number.
DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.
Megan froze.
A second message appeared.
HE KNOWS YOU’RE HOME.
She immediately called 911.
While she waited for the police, she turned off every light in the house and moved away from the windows.
Then she heard something that made her blood run cold.
The back door handle moved.
Slowly.
Someone was trying to open it.
Megan stayed completely still.
The handle stopped.
A few seconds passed.
Then her phone buzzed again.
HE’S TRYING THE BACK DOOR NOW.
She stared at the message.
Whoever was texting her could see what was happening.
But from where?
She crawled into the hallway and waited.
Minutes later, headlights appeared through the curtains.
The police.
Officers surrounded the house and searched the property.
They found nobody.
But one officer discovered something strange.
The back door hadn’t been forced.
Neither had the front door.
Instead, there were muddy footprints underneath the kitchen window.
Someone had been standing there.
Watching.
The officers told Megan to stay somewhere else that night.
She packed a bag and went to her sister’s house.
The next morning, she received another text from the same unknown number.
This time, there was a photograph attached.
It was a picture of Megan sleeping on her couch.
Taken through the living-room window.
She immediately called the police.
They traced the number.
It belonged to a prepaid phone that had been purchased earlier that week.
But the phone itself was gone.
The police searched the area again.
Nothing.
Megan moved out two days later.
She never found out who had been watching her.
Six months passed.
Eventually, she began to feel safe again.
Then, one night, she heard three knocks at the apartment where she was now living.
Knock.
A pause.
Knock.
Another pause.
Knock.
Her heart stopped.
She didn’t move.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
I TOLD YOU NOT TO OPEN THE DOOR.
Megan stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
THIS TIME, I’M ALREADY INSIDE.