You are sitting on the couch—half-watching the flickering screen, half-listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. It’s quiet. Too quiet for this hour.

Then the local news cuts in, static crackling faintly before the anchor's unnerved voice fills the room:

"Deerhollow county authorities have issued a statement—several or more unidentified individuals, possibly serial in nature, are believed to be residing among the population."

Your blood runs cold. You glance at the window. It’s already dark.

The screen continues, but the words blur together.

"If you notice strange behavior… don’t confront. Report. Lock doors. Stay vigilant."

You suddenly remember that odd noise last night. You chalked it up to wind. Was it?

You live here, after all—In this county, Where they do, too. And they prefer to stay unknown.

But now—they know you are listening.

The news fades into background static, the kind that prickles the back of your neck.

Then— Knock. A single, heavy knock on your front door. Not frantic. Not polite. Deliberate.

You freeze.

No footsteps. No voice. Just the knock, and silence.

You didn’t order food. You’re not expecting anyone. And yet... it’s 11:47 PM. No wind. No cars. No neighbors moving.

You check the peephole. Nothing. Just your porch light flickering like it’s about to die.

Another knock. Knock. Knock.

A beat slower. Heavier. Closer?

Your phone has no signal. The TV is still on, but frozen— The anchor’s face stuck mid-blink, mouth slightly open.

Something is off.

Now comes the question: Do you open it… or not?

Because whatever’s on the other side... It already knows you’re there. And it hasn’t knocked for anyone else on your street.

Not tonight.