Something Knocks on my Door Every Night at 12:16am

By Chef A10A10A10

//Source.

It first happened last week, Thursday, March the 22nd. It was just after midnight and I was lying awake in bed when I first heard it.

knock knock knock

My first reaction was to look at my phone to see if someone tried calling or texting me. But there were no messages. I live alone in a quiet suburban neighborhood. I couldn’t think of any good reason why someone would be knocking at that time and I decided to ignore it.

But then it happened again the next night at around the same time. I went downstairs this time, took a deep breath, and looked through the peephole.

Nothing was there.

I was getting a little weirded out at this point and decided again not to open the door. But if it happened again tomorrow, I’d be more willing to investigate.

And it did happen again the next night. This time I made note of the specific time. 12:16 am. I was at the door in less than 10 seconds and promptly opened it. It was dark out there and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Was something moving in the shadows near the bushes?

No.

There was nobody there. Nothing. I looked down the street in both directions but saw no movement. It was remarkably quiet out there but I didn’t hear any footsteps. I was confused. Who was knocking on my door every night? And for the first time, I didn’t think who, but what.

I thought back then to the day when the knocking first began and wondered if was related. March 22nd. I was at a funeral that day and I think I need to write a little about it here.

It was for my friend Pete. My best friend growing up. From about 8-15 we were inseparable. We started to lose touch 15-20. The last time I’d heard from him at all was 12 years ago when we were both 22. The strangest thing about his funeral was this… nobody else was there. Just me and a Priest. He was reading an incoherent bible verse when I interrupted him and asked him where everybody else was. He paused for a moment, looked at me, then went back to reading. It felt uncomfortable. I decided to leave.

So is that significant? Did I bring some spirit back with me from the funeral home? Or was I just losing my mind?

I decided I’d try and be quicker the next night. I’d wait near the door and have it opened in seconds. I wouldn’t allow any time for whatever it was to get away. But even this plan failed. It must have been a mere seconds after the knocking stopped before I opened the door. What would stand before me? Was it a neighborhood kid playing a prank? A mischievous spirit? A warning to me from the supernatural? All three options seemed equally unlikely.

But again, it was just empty space. Silence.

I had one more plan for the next night. I slipped outside at midnight and hid behind a neighbor’s car across the street. I had a very clear view of my front door and I’d be able to see whatever is knocking. I remember ducking behind the rear bumper of his car thinking what would my neighbors think if they see me? I looked at my phone. 12:15. It would happen any second now. I looked up and down the street for movement. I couldn’t see anybody. I held my phone in front of me. I watched it turn to 12:16, and still nothing was there. I was actually slightly disappointed for a fraction of a second…. But then I heard it.

knock knock knock

But I’m 100% certain as I write this… nobody was there. I was looking right at my door. But what I did see, for just a moment (and I can’t be certain) was saw a shadowy figure move away from my house. Not human. Not even something real or tangible. It was as though a shadow was moving down the sidewalk. But even I acknowledge… maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I have no idea.

I have tried some other things the past few nights. I stood by my front door one night and recorded the knocks, and then played the recording to my coworkers the next day. I started thinking the knocking was just in my head. But they could hear it. They were confused as to why I was making them listen to it… but they could most certainly hear it.

And then two nights ago I decided to beat the knocking to the punch. I stood with my phone in front of me and opened the door at precisely 12:16, just to see what would happen.

But again, there was nothing there. In fact, the knocking didn’t even happen this time. So if I stood with the door open at 12:16, the knocking would be prevented. What could that mean? And here’s the stranger thing… the knocking did wake me up that morning at 7:07 am. Why 7:07 am this time? Why wouldn’t the knocking happen if I stood with the door open? I have no idea. I’m lost. I’m really really lost.

I’m left very confused because I can’t help but think that maybe there’s some sort of secret code I’m supposed to work out. There’s the date, March 22nd. But also, what about the number of knocks on the door? It’s always three. Does that mean anything? The times the knocking occurs is always 12:16 and 7:07. Do those times represent something?

If anyone thinks of anything, please comment below. I’ll be reading and am open to advice. Maybe I can even try some of your ideas out tonight.

At 12:16 am.


It’s been two nights since I last posted.

On the first of those nights, I simply ignored the knocking again. I was still reading through the comments on my nosleep submission and trying to figure out what to do next.

Some Redditors suggested that, given that the knocking didn’t happen when the door was opened, that I just permanently leave my front door open. But that just seems ridiculous as far as I’m concerned. This is the front door to my house. Anybody could just walk in, let alone rats, raccoons, insects, etc. No, that wasn’t a strong long-term solution.

Others suggested ideas like setting up infrared cameras, leaving a fresh coat of paint on the door to see if prints are left, and even contacting a priest. I thought about maybe eventually resorting to those options.

But a post by u/houseofpwncakes set me on a different path. He suggested I look at Bible passages that match up to the time the knocking occurred. 12:16 and 7:07. Specifically, revelations 12:16 from the bible was recommended. While I was unable to find relevance in that passage, it got me looking into other biblical passages.

Acts 12:16 “But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.”

I mean, that couldn’t possibly just be a coincidence, could it? I had been at my friend Pete’s funeral the first day the knocking began. And the passage directly references the knocking.

The second time the knocking occurred was 7:07. After a little digging, I was able to find this passage.

Matthew 7:7 “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.”

The part I focused on was “knock, and it will be opened to you.” Does that mean I should knock back (as some Redditors suggested) and something will happen? If I put it all together… it appears that it really is the spirit of my former friend Pete who was knocking on the door. If I knock back and then open the door, what I see will be “astonishing.”

I decided to give it a try last night.

I was standing by my door at 12:15, waiting…

I was looking at the clock when it clicked over to 12:16, and then I heard it same as usual.

knock knock knock

I raised my hand and knocked back immediately. Three times.

Then I opened the door.

And I was astonished.

What stood before me I could barely see. Light refracted off of it in a strange manner and made it difficult to focus on. It was mostly a shadow and somewhat transparent. It looked both somewhat familiar while at the same time alien from this world. It had a humanoid form but looked tormented, abominable, and odious.

In my state of repulsion and fear, it took me a moment to recognize that somewhere deep down inside this monstrosity was what remained of my friend Pete. It was him. No question.

He didn’t speak to me. Instead, we could sort of see each other’s thoughts. That’s the best way I could explain it.

And I saw all the evil that Pete had done. The reason that nobody other than myself showed up to his funeral. He had been a monster in his adult life. The worst that humanity had to offer. Rape, violence, torture, murder. I saw it all. Most of it he had never even been caught for. But it was a murder that eventually got him put in jail. He was killed there, by another inmate. I saw myself at his funeral, alone, as the Priest read aloud Genesis 3:22, describing when mankind first became aware of the difference between good and evil.

And what happened next was an even worse experience. Both Pete and I were looking at the things that I had done wrong in life. I’m not going to own up to them here. They may pale in comparison to what Pete had done… but I saw how extreme my flaws had become. How badly I’d been corrupted.

The shadowy figure of what used to be my friend Pete held up a hand to wave. I saw the anguish and agony in his eyes… and then he vanished into thin air.

I stood looking into the dark empty yard of my house for at least a minute before quietly shutting the door.

So what did all of this mean? Was it a warning? If I don’t clean up my ways, I’ll also one day become the torturous form that stood before me? How do I start? Should I yell from my window asking a kid to buy the biggest goose in town and deliver it to the Cratchit family?

I’ve been thinking back to my childhood with Pete. Were there any signs of what he’d become? Why hadn’t I ever heard about his crimes? How did I even hear about his funeral? I don’t use any social media. I didn’t receive a letter or a phone call. I just somehow showed up there.

And why did he choose to come and warn me? Because we were friends? Because I was the only person to show up to his funeral?

I wasn’t sure. There wouldn’t be answers. And then I figured out that there was only one thing I could do.

Try and be better.

I did receive another knock yesterday. And I’m certain it will be the last time he ever knocks on my door. One final message. It occurred at 5:17.

It took a bit of digging, but it translates to 17:17 on the 24-hour clock.

I looked at the passage I’m certain he was showing me and smiled. And I think I can make sense of it. I think it all makes sense now.

Proverbs 17:17: A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need.

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Some People in Gas Masks have been Standing Outside of a Building in a Dead Cornfield

By Chef Mr_Outlaw_

//Source.

We’d been driving around Texas for a while. Clayton, Tom and I had recently graduated, so we had no destination. We were just there to dick around and create some memories until we had to snap back to real life.

At one point, Tom had gotten into a heated bar-fight at some dingy joint in Bexar County. The police were called. Although he hadn’t gotten any charges, the cops pretty much warned us that we weren’t welcome back in the area. Fair enough. We decided to tone it down a bit. That’s when we started planning some shit that wouldn’t get us potentially stabbed and/or arrested. We all settled on the paranormal. That stuff was just so interesting, you know? I guess it really preys on that esoteric fear of the unknown that the human psyche implicitly holds, stimulating some kind of fucked-up rush to the brain. Anyways, we were in the market for some spooky shit.  Continue reading “Some People in Gas Masks have been Standing Outside of a Building in a Dead Cornfield”

Someone Knocks on my Door Every Night

By Chef BloomMilk

//Source.

Around last Wednesday on the 20th my roommates and I finished moving into our new apartment. The place is pretty nice, nothing too fancy, but a good size for the three of us. Our apartment has a nice open kitchen and family room, and connecting to it is a narrow hallway with all of our bedrooms. Every night since we moved in has been really odd though. Continue reading “Someone Knocks on my Door Every Night”

Here is Some Comfort for the Disturbed

By Chef Circus_Fighter

//Source.

I sat on the ledge of the stone bridge, my legs dangling over the river below and my back resting against the wide stem of a lamppost. The silence and cold that night wrapped around me and numbed my fingers. I tried to breathe through my tears, my breath turning to clouds beneath the light of the lamppost. The familiar, inexplicable pain in my chest twisted and turned, and filled my head with emptiness and despair.

I’ve been depressed for as long as I can remember. I recall as a small child, in perhaps my first year of school, I said to my mother, “I feel sick.”

And she asked me, “Where do you feel sick?”

Being unable to articulate what I felt, I pointed at my chest and said, “In here.”

Back then I still had the capability to feel happiness. But it left me. Little by little. Then came the anxiety. The panic attacks, insomnia, nightmares, that constant, irrational fear. Now here I am, still young, but feeling more tired than ever. When asked, “What do you plan on doing with your life?” I held my tongue on the bitter answer in my head: “I’m not sure I even want to keep it.”

So it was the bridge that night. A few days ago it was the train station. Sometimes just my apartment balcony. I sat in places where with just a few steps and a leap, I could die instantaneously, and without a sound, fade from my misery. I stayed in these places for long, silent periods of time. It reminded me that as long as I was sitting still, I was resisting that ever-present temptation, and that gave me hope. That the pain would pass and I might feel something again.

It was well past midnight when I met him. He walked down the ledge towards me, arms out on both sides to balance himself. He sat down beside me. “It’s kinda cold to be out, isn’t it?”

I half-turned my face away and shrugged, hiding behind my hair. “I don’t feel that cold.”

He leaned forward, into my personal space. I shifted uncomfortably.

“You look tired,” he said. “Have you been crying?”

“You have no idea,” I muttered, gazing down at the black, glinting waters below.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about jumping,” he said, crossing his legs.

“Maybe,” I murmured. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You a student?” he asked.

“Art and linguistics,” I replied.

“Literature and history,” he said, pointing to himself.

I sighed. “I don’t care. Go away.”

“La tristesse durera toujours,” he said, looking into the starry sky.

I didn’t know French, but the phrase tickled my memory. “Van Gogh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know what it means, right?”

I tried to remember. “Sadness… Um, the sadness.” Tears suddenly fell from my eyes. I wiped them away. “I don’t remember.”

“In saecula saeculorum,” he murmured quietly, probably to himself. That one I remembered. I’d read it in one of Orwell’s essays.

“Forever and ever…” my mouth formed the translation without thinking. I remembered then. “La tristesse durera toujours: The sadness will last forever.”

He nodded. “Do you believe that?”

I was silent for a moment. “I fear it.”

“So did I,” he whispered, those words taking the form of mist. “So do many people. But it will end. It has to end. One way or another.”

“One way or another,” I repeated, my eyes growing wet again.

“I hope you find an end better than the one you stare at,” he said.

I was confused at the statement, but the sickness in my heart blotted out the pale emotion. “If there is an end at all.”

He stood up. “Whatever you do, stand your ground. An end will come, and let it come naturally.” He left, walking down the ledge the same way he came.

Van Gogh, I thought, looking up at the sky. What a sad, sad man he was.

I must have fallen asleep there, for in the morning, I woke up freezing and damp, and sore in many places. Someone was shaking me, and then stuck their fingers against my neck. I rose, shoving the stranger away, rubbing my eyes. I didn’t even feel alarmed. I still felt nothing. I looked up to see a man in blue uniform. I squinted against the grey dawn, swaying slightly on my feet. “What is it?”

“Miss, could you come with me?” he said. I looked around. A couple vehicles. Some police tape.

“What for?” I asked, longing for a hot bath.

The officer looked uncomfortable, but maintained his stern posture. “Were you here all night, Miss?”

I grew wary. “Maybe. Why does it matter?”

He held up a photo. “Do you recognize this young man?”

It was the guy from last night. “Yeah. I don’t know who he is though. We only spoke for a couple minutes, then he left.”

“And what time was that?”

I wondered if this was the right place for a questioning. I wondered what happened. I wondered when I could go home. “Somewhere between 2 or 3 am, I don’t know, I think I remember my watch clicking for two. I don’t remember it clicking for three.”

The officer frowned. “Are you sure?”

I gave him my tired, bitter gaze, hoping he would see the exhausted honesty in my eyes. “Yes. We talked briefly of studies and Van Gogh. I was upset, he tried to comfort me.”

“Miss, it couldn’t have been that late, was it perhaps around 9 or 10?”

I couldn’t hide my look of disgust. “No. People are still around at that time. Tell me what you’re after, and whether I need to call my doctor or a lawyer.”

“Miss, this man fell from this bridge last night at 11:43pm,” the officer seemed to turn intimidating before my eyes. “He drowned. Please be truthful, Miss, or I will take you in for further questioning.”

I sighed, rubbing my puffy, reddened eyes. “Let me go home,” I mumbled weakly.

“Miss-“

“I want my doctor,” I whimpered, childlike, and beginning to cry. Was I mourning the death of someone I met for only a few minutes? Or was it something else? The tears flowed continuously, and I held my aching head with frozen fingers.

“Miss, are you alright?”

I closed my eyes, trying to speak clearly. “I remember wrong. Maybe it was a dream. We had met, maybe sometime before that… an old friend, maybe? Why… when did he…” A stream of jumbled words came from my lips as I tried to rationalize. “But I don’t even know his name. Do I not remember?”

“What do you remember?” the officer asked seriously.

“La tristess durera toujours,” I said, a cold chill running down my spine. The world turned blurry before my eyes. “I don’t believe it. Yes, I remember what he told me; he said: It has to end, one way or another.”

The officer said something, but it was distant to me, I was once again in the confines of my sickened mind. I felt a deep sadness, like waking up from a dream where you had spent a lifetime with someone. A mourning for something that never was. But I also felt hope. If I were religious, I might have considered it a vision or a message from above. I simply held a new belief: It will end.

One way or another.