The Stranger at My Door
It was a night like any other—or so I thought. The rain had started sometime after dusk, tapping gently at the windows, building into a steady rhythm that echoed through the walls of my small, rural home. I lived alone, just outside the city, far enough to enjoy the quiet but close enough to feel safe—or so I believed.
By 12:30 a.m., I was curled up on the couch with a blanket, a half-read novel in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The fireplace was nearly out, its embers glowing faintly. I had just begun to doze off when I heard it.
Three knocks.
Deliberate. Slow. Heavy.
They weren’t frantic, but they weren’t casual either. They sounded… certain, as if the person on the other side knew I was home and expected me to answer.
I sat up straight, the cup trembling slightly in my hands. My heart began to thud in my chest. No one came here uninvited—certainly not this late.
I set the cup down quietly and walked to the door, careful not to make a sound on the old wooden floorboards. Peering through the peephole, I saw a man standing there, motionless.
He was tall, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, wearing a long, dark coat. The rain was still falling, but he didn’t seem to flinch. His hood was up, casting a shadow over his face, but I could make out a pale, almost expressionless jawline.
Against my better judgment, I unlocked the door but kept the chain on. I opened it just a crack.
“Yes?” I asked, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my stomach.
The man tilted his head slightly. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, his voice low and calm. “My car broke down a few miles back. I couldn’t get a signal. I was wondering if I could use your phone.”
Everything about him seemed… rehearsed. Polite, patient, yet strangely hollow. His tone didn’t match the situation. If he were really stranded in a storm, wouldn’t he seem more desperate? More anxious?
“I can call someone for you,” I said, not moving from the door.
He paused. Just for a moment. Then nodded slowly. “That would be fine.”
I closed the door and locked it. When I turned around, I realized I hadn’t even asked him who to call. But something felt off. And I trusted that feeling.
I grabbed my cell phone and returned to the door. “Who should I call?” I asked loudly through the wood.
No answer.
I looked through the peephole again. He was still there, but he wasn’t looking at the door. He was staring off to the side, toward the living room window.
I stepped back, chills rising on my neck. I didn’t say anything else. I turned off all the lights and quietly backed away from the door, heart racing.
A moment later, there were three more knocks.
Then silence.
I waited. Minutes passed, but it felt like hours. Finally, I tiptoed to the front window and peeked through the curtain. The man was gone. The driveway was empty. No sign of a car—or of him.
I didn’t sleep that night. I kept the lights off and sat in the dark, staring at the door, listening for any sound.
The next morning, the rain had stopped. Pale sunlight stretched across the trees. I opened the door and stepped outside cautiously.
And that’s when I saw it.
A note. Tucked neatly between the doorframe and the wood.
It wasn’t wet. It hadn’t been there during the rain.
I unfolded it with trembling hands. In neat, block letters, it read:
“Smart choice. Maybe next time.”
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know what to think. Had I just avoided something terrible? Or was it all a sick joke?
I called the police. They arrived within twenty minutes, combed the area, asked questions, and left with little to say. There was no broken-down car. No footprints. No evidence that anyone had been there.
I tried to move on, but something had changed in me. I started checking all the locks three times before bed. I installed cameras, motion lights, and even a second deadbolt. But for weeks after, I felt watched—like that stranger was still out there somewhere, waiting.
It would’ve ended there. But it didn’t.
Two months later, a neighbor from five miles up the road—someone I didn’t even know—disappeared. Her name was Ruthie Harper. Middle-aged, friendly, lived alone. The police found no signs of forced entry. Her car was still in the garage. Her purse and phone were on the table. But she was gone.
No leads. No suspects. No struggle.
I couldn’t help but think of the man. The calm voice. The note. Maybe next time.
I showed the note to the police again, but they dismissed the connection. Said it could be a prank. A coincidence. But I knew better.
Because three nights after Ruthie vanished, I found something else.
Another note. This one on my bedroom windowsill, under the closed but now-unlocked window latch.
“You always leave the kitchen light on. Makes it easy to see you.”
That was it.
I moved out the next day. Didn’t sell the house, didn’t pack much. I left and never looked back.
It’s been nearly a year now. I live in a new city, under a different name. I don’t go out at night. I don’t answer knocks on the door after sunset. And I never, ever forget to check the locks.
Because sometimes, it’s not about who you let in.
It’s about who’s already watching.
BY : BABY MISHRA
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