The Third Knock

It started with the knocking.

Three soft raps at my apartment door at exactly 3:33 a.m.

I live on the 17th floor of a building with security, so no one should be up here unannounced. I checked the peephole. No one was there.

The next night, the same thing. Three knocks 3:33 a.m. No one there.

By the fourth night, I’d stopped sleeping. I tried recording with my phone. At 3:33 a.m., it buzzed with a notification.

Motion detected. I watched the video.

Three slow knocks.

But the camera showed no one. No shadow. No hand. Just the door trembling slightly with each knock.

I started noticing... things. My hallway mirror was fogged up one morning, even though I hadn’t showered. Words were scrawled into it, faint but legible:

“Don’t answer the third knock.”

I didn’t know what it meant until the seventh night. The knocking came again. But this time, it wasn’t soft.

BANG!!!.

A pause.

BANG!!!.

My heart stopped.

Then came the third knock.

I don’t know why I moved toward the door. It wasn’t curiosity. It was like I was being pulled. Every cell in my body told me to stop—but my hand reached for the lock.

And I opened it.

The hallway was still empty. But there was a Mirror leaning against the wall across from my door.

And in it, I saw myself.

The reflection was smiling.

But.... I wasn’t moving.