It's been a while since I wrote anything.
So I decided not to ease back into it.
Instead, I brought a story.
A strange one.
The kind that lingers in your mind long after you've finished reading.
Enjoy The Fourth Knock.
And if you hear someone knocking later today...
Well, that's probably just a coincidence.
Everyone in Oke-Agbọn knew the rule.
If you hear three knocks at night, ignore them.
If you hear a fourth, don't answer.
Nobody knew where the rule came from.
Nobody talked about it much.
But everybody followed it.
Except Tunde.
The knocks started on a Thursday.
He was studying alone in his apartment, preparing for an exam.
11:47 p.m.
Knock.
He looked up.
Someone at the door.
Annoyed, he checked his phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.
He walked to the peephole.
Nobody.
The hallway was empty.
He shrugged and returned to his desk.
Five minutes later:
Knock.
This time he frowned.
He opened the door immediately.
Nothing.
The corridor stretched in both directions.
Silent.
Empty.
A chill crept across his skin.
Still, he convinced himself it was some stupid prank.
Then came the third knock.
Knock.
Louder.
Slower.
As if whoever made it wanted him to know they were still there.
Tunde froze.
Something about the sound felt wrong.
Not the volume.
Not the timing.
The feeling.
It sounded close.
Too close.
Like the knock hadn't come from the door.
Like it had come from inside the apartment.
He locked the door.
Checked every room.
Nothing.
No one.
Eventually he laughed at himself and went to bed.
At 3:03 a.m., his phone vibrated.
One new message.
Unknown Number.
The text contained only five words.
Did you hear all three?
Tunde sat upright.
His heart pounded.
He typed back:
Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
Don't answer the fourth.
The message disappeared.
Not deleted.
Gone.
As if it had never existed.
Tunde stared at the screen.
Then his bedroom door creaked open.
Very slowly.
The hallway beyond was dark.
Darker than it should have been.
No moonlight.
No shadows.
Just black.
His throat tightened.
"Tunde."
A woman's voice.
Soft.
Gentle.
His mother's voice.
His mother lived hundreds of kilometers away.
"Tunde," it called again.
"Come here."
His blood turned cold.
He dialed his mother immediately.
The call connected.
She answered on the first ring.
"Tunde?"
Relief flooded through him.
"Mummy?"
"Yes?"
Before he could speak further, another voice whispered from the hallway.
The same voice.
His mother's voice.
"Tunde."
Now there were two.
One on the phone.
One outside his room.
Both speaking at the same time.
"Tunde."
The call disconnected.
His screen went black.
And then—
Knock.
The fourth knock.
Directly beneath his bed.
Tunde couldn't breathe.
The sound had come from under him.
Not the wall.
Not the floor.
Under the bed.
Slowly, something shifted beneath the mattress.
A weight.
As though someone had crawled underneath and was positioning themselves.
Waiting.
The room grew colder.
The darkness in the hallway began to spread.
Like liquid.
Sliding across the floor.
Moving toward him.
Then a voice emerged from beneath the bed.
His own voice.
Perfectly identical.
"Don't look down."
The mattress sank.
Just slightly.
As though a hand had pressed upward from underneath.
Tunde squeezed his eyes shut.
The room was silent.
For ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then curiosity won.
Just for a second, he thought.
Just one glance.
He leaned over the edge.
And looked.
The space beneath the bed wasn't there anymore.
No floor.
No dust.
No storage boxes.
Just darkness.
Endless darkness.
And deep within it, impossibly far away, thousands of pale faces stared back.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Watching.
One of them moved closer.
Then another.
Then another.
Not walking.
Not crawling.
Appearing closer each time he blinked.
Until one face reached the edge.
His face.
Smiling.
The thing beneath the bed whispered:
"Found you."
The lights went out.
The neighbors reported hearing a scream.
Just one.
Short.
Sudden.
The next morning, the apartment was empty.
No sign of Tunde.
No sign of a struggle.
Nothing missing.
Except for one thing.
His bed.
The bed had vanished.
In its place was a message scratched into the concrete floor:
THERE WAS NEVER A FOURTH KNOCK.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO NOTICE THE FIRST THREE CAME FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.
The fourth knock isn't the one you hear.
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