Jeff Provine Writes

Sally’s jack-o-lantern will be the best, no matter what.

The knocks rapped on the front door just loudly enough to wake me. My wife didn’t stir until I got up and began pulling on my robe.

She groaned. “Don’t answer that. It’s three in the morning.”

I sat there a moment and listened as another round of knocking went on. “I’ll just go check who it is.”

The knocking continued, persistent but never earnest, as I stumbled groggily down the front hall. I came close, and it stopped.

I peeked through the eyehole. No one was there.

I turned away to go back to bed.

The knocking returned.

I looked through the eyehole again. No one was there.

“Kids,” I muttered and went back to the bedroom. The knocking continued until morning, starting up once again just as soon as I started to drift off.

The next night, heavy bags still under my eyes, I slept on the floor in my office. My wife said we should just call the police if it happened again. I wanted to be the one to catch them.

I woke with a start to the knocking just after three. It was louder this time. I slipped toward the front window slowly, moving only when it pounded on the door so that even if I made a noise, they wouldn’t hear me.

When I slid the curtain back, there was nothing on the other side of the door.

Still something knocked.

I shivered and slid back to my chair. I wrapped the blanket over my ears, trying to drown out the knocking.

Night after night, it banged on the door. We tried earplugs, white noise, everything. The more we tried, the louder it pounded. Sleepless nights turned into bitter days. My wife went to stay with her sister. I wouldn’t leave.

I’d lost track of how many weeks it went on. Sleep didn’t seem to be an option anymore. I lay awake until the pounding started.

Finally the embers of energy that had been keeping me going suddenly flamed up into rage. I tore out of bed and threw myself across the house, leaving scratches in the wall as I went. In the midst of the knocking, I flung open the door.

Everything went silent. The air outside was still and cold.

I charged out with a fist shaking. “If you EVER knock on this door again, so help me, I will FIND you! I don’t know what I will have to do, but I will make you REGRET you started this!”

There was no response from the empty night. I went back inside and slammed the door behind me. There were no more knocking that night, or the next.

Then, just last night, something knocked on the back door.

‘Vardoger’ from 31 Ghost Stories, based on Scandinavian folklore that sometimes the spirit arrives before the body does