MidReal Story

The Knocking

Anonymous

Scenario:raced. “Whoever you are, this isn’t funny,” James said, trying to steady his nerves. “Stop messing with me.” The voice chuckled, low and guttural. The sound sent chills down his spine. "You shouldn’t have turned around." James’ heart skipped a beat. His eyes darted around the room again. He could feel something, a presence, in the air—like someone was watching him. The silence was deafening, almost as if the world itself had stopped to listen. And then, out of nowhere, he heard it. A soft shuffle. Almost like footsteps, but too slow. Too deliberate. His breath caught. He spun around, his eyes scanning the shadows, but there was nothing there. He felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding in his ears. “Who’s there?” James called, his voice shaky. There was no response. Only the eerie, ringing silence. James turned back to the phone, his hand trembling as he gripped the receiver. “Who are you? What do you want?” The voice replied, low and chilling: “I want you to open the door.” James’ stomach twisted. His eyes flicked to the front door across the room. The deadbolt was secure. The locks were in place. No one should be outside. “Go away,” James said, his voice more firm now, though his mind screamed in panic. And then, the phone went dead. James stood there, staring at the receiver in his hand, his mind racing. It’s nothing. Just a prank. But deep down, he knew something wasn’t right. He knew he wasn’t alone. He moved to the door, his feet heavy with dread. He didn’t want to look through the peephole. He didn’t want to see whatever might be out there. But the air in the room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on him. He stepped cautiously toward the door, pressing his eye against the cold glass of the peephole. Nothing. He sighed in relief. False alarm, he thought. But as he started to turn away, the hair on his neck prickled again. He felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Slowly, he turned back to the door, his pulse quickening. There, in the reflection of the peephole, was a figure standing in the shadows of the front porch. The silhouette of a man. Tall, unnervingly still, and completely motionless. His breath caught. How long has he been there? James stepped back, his heart racing, but the moment his back hit the wall, the phone rang again. Startled, he grabbed the receiver. “Who the hell is this?” His voice cracked with frustration and fear. “James…” The voice whispered again, softer this time, more intimate, like it was right next to him. “You’ve been running from me long enough.” The blood drained from his face. He turned toward the door, where the figure still stood, unmoving, staring into the peephole as though it knew he was there. James took a step backward, his knees trembling. He wanted to run. He wanted to escape. But his feet felt frozen to the floor. The voice, low and menacing, continued. “You can’t hide forever, James. I’ve been waiting.” Suddenly, the door rattled. A violent knock that shook the frame. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Open it,” the voice demanded. James stumbled backward, his body cold with terror. The knock came again, louder, more insistent. Knock. Knock. Knock. It was no longer just a sound. It was a command. He could feel it deep in his bones—this thing outside, whatever it was, wanted in. And it wouldn’t stop until it got what it wanted. The knocking didn’t stop. With his heart in his throat, James turned, grabbed his keys, and bolted out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He ran through the night, through the dark streets, but no matter how fast he ran, the knocking followed him, echoing in his mind, growing louder. And the voice, that voice, whispered one last time, a cold breath against his ear. "I’m already inside."

Create my version of this story

raced. “Whoever you are, this isn’t funny,” James said, trying to steady his nerves. “Stop messing with me.” The voice chuckled, low and guttural. The sound sent chills down his spine. "You shouldn’t have turned around." James’ heart skipped a beat. His eyes darted around the room again. He could feel something, a presence, in the air—like someone was watching him. The silence was deafening, almost as if the world itself had stopped to listen. And then, out of nowhere, he heard it. A soft shuffle. Almost like footsteps, but too slow. Too deliberate. His breath caught. He spun around, his eyes scanning the shadows, but there was nothing there. He felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding in his ears. “Who’s there?” James called, his voice shaky. There was no response. Only the eerie, ringing silence. James turned back to the phone, his hand trembling as he gripped the receiver. “Who are you? What do you want?” The voice replied, low and chilling: “I want you to open the door.” James’ stomach twisted. His eyes flicked to the front door across the room. The deadbolt was secure. The locks were in place. No one should be outside. “Go away,” James said, his voice more firm now, though his mind screamed in panic. And then, the phone went dead. James stood there, staring at the receiver in his hand, his mind racing. It’s nothing. Just a prank. But deep down, he knew something wasn’t right. He knew he wasn’t alone. He moved to the door, his feet heavy with dread. He didn’t want to look through the peephole. He didn’t want to see whatever might be out there. But the air in the room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on him. He stepped cautiously toward the door, pressing his eye against the cold glass of the peephole. Nothing. He sighed in relief. False alarm, he thought. But as he started to turn away, the hair on his neck prickled again. He felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Slowly, he turned back to the door, his pulse quickening. There, in the reflection of the peephole, was a figure standing in the shadows of the front porch. The silhouette of a man. Tall, unnervingly still, and completely motionless. His breath caught. How long has he been there? James stepped back, his heart racing, but the moment his back hit the wall, the phone rang again. Startled, he grabbed the receiver. “Who the hell is this?” His voice cracked with frustration and fear. “James…” The voice whispered again, softer this time, more intimate, like it was right next to him. “You’ve been running from me long enough.” The blood drained from his face. He turned toward the door, where the figure still stood, unmoving, staring into the peephole as though it knew he was there. James took a step backward, his knees trembling. He wanted to run. He wanted to escape. But his feet felt frozen to the floor. The voice, low and menacing, continued. “You can’t hide forever, James. I’ve been waiting.” Suddenly, the door rattled. A violent knock that shook the frame. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Open it,” the voice demanded. James stumbled backward, his body cold with terror. The knock came again, louder, more insistent. Knock. Knock. Knock. It was no longer just a sound. It was a command. He could feel it deep in his bones—this thing outside, whatever it was, wanted in. And it wouldn’t stop until it got what it wanted. The knocking didn’t stop. With his heart in his throat, James turned, grabbed his keys, and bolted out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He ran through the night, through the dark streets, but no matter how fast he ran, the knocking followed him, echoing in his mind, growing louder. And the voice, that voice, whispered one last time, a cold breath against his ear. "I’m already inside."

James Carter

first_person_protagonist, male. He is a young man living alone in a house. He is anxious, determined, and fearful. James receives a mysterious phone call from an unknown voice that threatens him. The voice demands he open the door, but James refuses. He flees his house after hearing footsteps and seeing a figure outside. James runs through the night, haunted by the voice's ominous presence.

Lily Carter

side_character, female. She is James' younger sister who lives with their parents in another town. She is innocent, caring, and naive. Lily is unaware of the danger her brother faces and remains a source of comfort for James through phone calls.

Mark Carter

side_character, male. He is James' older brother who lives with their parents in another town. He is protective, responsible, and supportive. Mark tries to reassure James about his safety concerns but remains unaware of the true danger.

I knew I wasn’t alone.

I could feel it—the heavy, crushing weight of someone watching me.

My skin prickled with fear.

I glanced over my shoulder, but the dark hallway behind me was empty.

Still, I felt it.

I felt it, and it made my heart race.

"Who’s there?"

I called, my voice shaking.

There was no response.

I took a deep breath and tried again, my determination overriding my fear.

"Show yourself!"

The silence was deafening.

It was as though I’d been swallowed up by something, as though I’d been sucked into a vacuum.

And then, out of nowhere, the phone rang.

I jumped.

My nerves were on edge, and the sudden, shrill sound made my heart race even faster.

I stared at the phone, its loud bell piercing the silence, and I knew—I knew, without a single doubt—this was the one watching me.

I hesitated for a moment before I picked it up.

"Hello?" I said, my voice trembling.

There was a pause on the other end.

And then, a voice—cold, menacing, unfamiliar—spoke.

"Open the door," it said.

"Who is this?"

I demanded, anger replacing my fear.

"I want to know—why are you doing this?"

The voice chuckled softly in my ear—a cold, guttural sound that sent chills down my spine.

"Open the door," it said again.

And then, the line went dead.

I stared at the receiver in my hand, my breath ragged and uneven.

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know who that voice was or why they were doing this.

But I knew one thing—I had to get out of there.

I stumbled through the dimly lit streets, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The voice echoed in my mind, its words repeating over and over again.

"Open the door."

It was relentless, taunting me, following me everywhere I went.

I couldn’t shake it off.

Every shadow seemed to stretch toward me, every rustle of leaves a whisper of its presence.

I ran faster, but no matter how fast I went, the voice was always there, weaving through my thoughts. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I reached a small park.

A flickering streetlight cast shadows on the ground, and I collapsed onto a bench beneath it.

I couldn’t run anymore—I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

And even as I sat there, trying desperately to catch my breath, the voice echoed in my mind.

"Open the door."

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Desperation clawed at me as I fumbled for my phone and dialed Mark’s number.

"Mark," I gasped when he answered, "it’s inside my head."

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just silence on the other end of the line.

And then, his voice came back strong and reassuring. "James," he said gently, "what do you mean?"

"It’s inside my head," I repeated desperately.

"The voice—it’s inside my head."

"I’m here," Mark said softly.

"Just breathe, and tell me everything you remember from the last few days."

I hesitated, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory.

"Mark, I think it started after I found that old journal in the attic."

"Okay," Mark said, his voice steady.

"Tell me more."

I took a deep breath and tried to recount the events that had led me to this nightmare.

But before I could even begin, the voice spoke again, its words echoing in my mind.

"Open the door," it demanded.

The shadows seemed to twist and writhe around me, dark figures creeping closer with every whispered demand.

I glanced around frantically, my heart pounding in my chest.

"James," Mark’s voice came through the phone, a tether to reality.

"Focus. Tell me what happened."

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on his voice, but it was hard to hear him over the relentless pounding in my ears.

"Open the door," the voice insisted again.

It was louder now, more insistent than ever before.

I felt like I was being consumed by it—like it was closing in on me from all sides. Desperate for escape, I stood abruptly and sprinted toward the nearest streetlight.

The shadows seemed to stretch and twist around me as I ran, their dark silhouettes dancing menacingly on the ground.

But I didn’t look back—I couldn’t look back.

I just kept running until I reached the safety of the light’s glow.

There, I stopped and turned back toward the park bench where I’d been sitting.

"James," Mark's voice crackled through the phone, "do you see anything unusual around you?"

I scanned the park, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

"No, just... just the shadows," I replied, my voice trembling.

"Listen," Mark said urgently, "that journal—did it mention anything about a door or a voice?"