The night had a weight to it—a thick, suffocating stillness that pressed against the apartment walls, a tangible burden on the air itself. Outside, the city slept a fitful, uneasy sleep, its neon glow bleeding through the blinds like sickly veins, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the ceiling. The low hum of distant traffic was absent, replaced by an unnerving quiet that amplified the tiniest sounds within.

Inside, Ryan stirred, pulling himself reluctantly from the depths of unconsciousness. His limbs felt heavy, disconnected, as if they belonged to someone else. He blinked, trying to clear the mental fog that clung to him like cobwebs.

Something had woken him. Not a loud bang or a disruptive crash, but something far more subtle, more insidious. An unsettling shift in the atmosphere, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

A breath? A sound? He strained his ears, listening intently, but all he heard was the pounding of his own heart.

His room was dark, the only light emanating from the sliver of open blinds and the faint, muted glow of his phone resting on the nightstand. He fumbled for it, his fingers brushing against the cool glass surface. He glanced at the clock.

2:58 AM. The witching hour. He shivered despite himself.

His heartbeat was steady. Normal. He was probably just imagining things. Just a bad dream, a remnant of some half-forgotten anxiety lingering from the day. He started to relax, to sink back into the comforting embrace of the mattress.

BUZZZZ. BUZZZZ.

His phone vibrated against the wood, a jarring intrusion into the silence. The sudden noise made him flinch, his muscles tensing instinctively. He stared at the illuminated screen.

Unknown number. Calling.

Ryan frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. At this hour? Who would be calling him at this ungodly hour? Probably spam, some automated sales pitch or a wrong number.

He let it ring, hoping the caller would simply give up and go away. He closed his eyes, willing himself back to sleep.

Then, the knocking started. A soft, hesitant tap at first, barely audible, but then growing bolder, more insistent. Tap. Tap. Tap. It came from the front door.

The sound was soft. Almost… polite. Not the insistent, demanding rap of a delivery driver, or the irritated drumming of a frustrated neighbor. This was… gentle. Uncertain.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ryan sat up in bed, the remnants of a dream clinging to the edges of his mind like cobwebs. The persistent knocking sliced through the last layers of sleep, replacing the hazy images with a burgeoning sense of unease. "Who the hell would be knocking at this hour?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

His apartment was on the third floor, a precarious perch above the grimy reality of the city streets. No visitors were expected. No friends who’d drop by unannounced, not anymore. He preferred it that way. Solitude was a shield, a buffer against the world’s sharp edges.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, its cold, smooth surface a contrast to his sleep-warmed skin. Rolling out of bed, his bare feet recoiled against the cold, unforgiving floorboards. He considered ignoring it, burying his head under the pillow and feigning deafness. But curiosity, that insidious little devil, had already taken root. He hesitated, then shuffled towards the door, his heart beginning a slow, rhythmic thump against his ribs. He peered through the peephole, bracing himself for… something.

Nothing.

The hallway outside was empty, bathed in the pale, flickering light of the motion-sensor lamp at the end of the corridor. Just a stretch of beige carpet and a row of identical, anonymous doors. A silent, unsettling void.

His phone buzzed again, the vibration a sharp jolt against his skin. He glanced down. The same unknown number that had been texting earlier, the one he’d ignored, dismissing it as a wrong number or a spam bot.

This time, he answered. A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, his voice a hesitant rasp.

A pause stretched out, thick and heavy with unspoken dread. He could hear the faintest static crackling in the background, a low, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to vibrate deep within his bones.

Then a whisper, so faint he almost missed it.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

His own voice.

"Do not open the door."

Ryan's breath hitched, a strangled gasp that caught in his throat. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and suffocating. His eyes were glued to the screen, the digits mocking him: the incoming call was originating from his own number. How was that even possible?

His fingers clenched around the phone, a vise tightening with each passing second. His muscles tensed, his body going rigid as a statue carved from ice. Every nerve ending screamed with a primal warning. Something was horribly wrong.

Then—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sound reverberated through the small apartment, each impact a hammer blow against his sanity. Louder this time. More insistent. More forceful, carrying a palpable sense of impatience, of menace.

A voice from the other side of the door, muffled but clear, cut through the rising panic. "I know you're in there."

Ryan stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet. The phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the floor, the ringing abruptly ceasing. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum solo against a backdrop of rising terror. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

He had to think. Get control.

He scrambled to the door, his hands shaking violently. He checked the locks, fumbling with the metal.

Deadbolt secured, the thick bolt sinking deep into the frame with a reassuring clunk. Chain locked, the flimsy metal suddenly seeming woefully inadequate against the unseen force on the other side.

His phone vibrated, the sudden buzz sending a fresh jolt of fear through him. He snatched it up, his eyes darting across the screen.

A text message. From himself.

"DON’T LOOK UNDER THE DOOR."

Ryan's mouth went dry, all moisture evaporating instantly. He swiped at his tongue, but it was like sandpaper. He hadn't even considered looking under the door. He'd been so focused on the locks, on the voice…

But now… now the seed of curiosity had been planted, and it was sprouting with terrifying speed, its roots winding around his reason. He couldn't ignore it. The warning itself was a lure, an irresistible compulsion.

His body moved before his mind could protest, an awful, growing dread pulling him downward, a gravitational force emanating from the sliver of space beneath the door. Slowly… cautiously… he crouched, each movement deliberate, agonizingly slow. He lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the narrow gap.

The floor was cold beneath his knees, the chill seeping through his jeans. His fingers trembled as he reached out, pressing his palm against the rough, painted wood, grounding himself, clinging to some semblance of reality.

A small gap beneath the door. A dark, uninviting void.

His breath was shallow, ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears, a deafening roar that threatened to drown out all other sounds. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, battling the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

Then… he forced himself to look. He opened his eyes, squinting, trying to pierce the gloom.

Then… he saw them.

A pair of eyes.

Wide. Unblinking. Staring back at him from the other side, reflecting the horror that mirrored his own. The whites of the eyes were stark against the darkness, and in their depths, he saw… nothing. Just an empty, infinite void that promised oblivion.

Ryan scrambled back, nearly tripping over himself on the throw rug he usually forgot was there. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, each beat a desperate plea for calm that went unanswered. He swiped the kitchen knife from the counter, the cold steel a small comfort against the rising tide of panic. His phone, clutched in his other hand, felt slick and unstable, on the verge of slipping from his grasp. He wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans, trying to regain purchase.

Another text. The notification ping had been a silent scream in the already heightened tension. He risked a glance, his breath hitching in his throat.

"It's too late. It's inside."

Ryan froze, the words burning themselves onto his retina. Inside. Inside where? Inside what? His mind raced, desperately trying to find a logical explanation, any explanation, that didn't involve the creeping dread that was now consuming him.

His eyes darted around the room, scanning every corner, every shadow. The mundane details of his life suddenly seemed sinister. The coat rack, the overflowing laundry basket, the stack of unopened mail on the table – potential hiding places, potential threats.

Empty.

His apartment was empty. The familiar furniture, the pictures on the wall, the half-finished cup of coffee on the counter – all unchanged. Yet, everything felt wrong, tainted by the message, by the suffocating sense of being watched.

Or was it?

The knocking had stopped. The insistent, rhythmic pounding that had driven him to the edge of madness had abruptly ceased. It was replaced by something worse: silence.

Silence stretched, thick and unnatural, pressing down on him like a physical weight. The hum of the refrigerator, usually a comforting background noise, now felt like a mocking reminder of normalcy in the face of the unknown.

Then—

A whisper. Faint, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there. It seemed to slither from the shadows, a chilling caress against his ear.

From inside the apartment. Not outside the door, not from the hallway, but from within the very walls of his sanctuary.

"Told you not to look."

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙈𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚

Morning arrived, but it brought no reprieve. The soft light, usually a welcome sight, felt like a grotesque spotlight illuminating the aftermath of a nightmare. Sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the apartment floor, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air, oblivious to the horror that had transpired.

The police stood outside, their uniforms a stark contrast to the warm glow of the morning. They exchanged hushed words, their faces grim, their shoulders slumped with the weight of the inexplicable.

Ryan’s door was locked. Bolted from the inside. A simple fact that defied all logic and reason.

Yet, he was gone. Vanished without a trace.

No signs of forced entry. The lock was intact, the windows secure. No struggle. The apartment was eerily neat, almost staged. No trace of him anywhere. His keys were on the table. His wallet was on the dresser. Everything was as it should be, except for the glaring absence of Ryan himself.

Only his phone remained, resting on the floor just inside the doorway, as if dropped in haste. The screen lit up intermittently, a cold, digital beacon in the otherwise still room. And on that screen, one final, unread message pulsed, a silent promise of a truth too terrifying to comprehend.

"Never open the door at 3 AM."