The Man Who Knocked Twice
After a mysterious knock on his door, a man finds himself trapped in a collapsing reality where forgotten lives linger. Every choice he makes pulls him deeper into a past he no longer remembers.
I had just finished boarding up the windows when the first knock came—three sharp raps that rattled the door in its frame. No one knew where the visitors came from, only that if you let them in, you never existed afterward.
Outside, the town was quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that presses against your skin. Power had been out for days. Radios buzzed with strange, overlapping broadcasts—half warnings, half apologies. No one dared to speak too loud after dark.
I waited, heart hammering, hoping they'd move on. But after exactly three minutes, a second knock came—this time softer, almost... polite.
Through the peephole, I saw him. A man in a crisp black coat, clean despite the rain, with a face so sharp and familiar it twisted something deep in my memory. He wasn’t angry or threatening. He just stood there, patiently, as if he already knew the decision I would make.
Somewhere, buried under the panic, a thought stirred: This had happened before. A flash of boarding up the same windows. Hearing the same knocks. Seeing the same man.
I stumbled back from the door, my hand trembling over the lock. Outside, the man's mouth moved. I couldn't hear him, but the words formed clear in my mind—“You have to choose.”
The clock on the wall ticked once—then twice—and then spun wildly backward, hands blurring in reverse.
When I blinked, I was no longer inside my house. I was standing on a street that no longer existed, surrounded by faces I should have recognized but didn’t. They looked at me with hollow eyes, as if they too had once answered a knock and been forgotten.
Behind me, another door waited, cracked open just enough for someone—or something—to slip through.
The second knock echoed again, but this time, it came from inside.
Outside, the town was quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that presses against your skin. Power had been out for days. Radios buzzed with strange, overlapping broadcasts—half warnings, half apologies. No one dared to speak too loud after dark.
I waited, heart hammering, hoping they'd move on. But after exactly three minutes, a second knock came—this time softer, almost... polite.
Through the peephole, I saw him. A man in a crisp black coat, clean despite the rain, with a face so sharp and familiar it twisted something deep in my memory. He wasn’t angry or threatening. He just stood there, patiently, as if he already knew the decision I would make.
Somewhere, buried under the panic, a thought stirred: This had happened before. A flash of boarding up the same windows. Hearing the same knocks. Seeing the same man.
I stumbled back from the door, my hand trembling over the lock. Outside, the man's mouth moved. I couldn't hear him, but the words formed clear in my mind—“You have to choose.”
The clock on the wall ticked once—then twice—and then spun wildly backward, hands blurring in reverse.
When I blinked, I was no longer inside my house. I was standing on a street that no longer existed, surrounded by faces I should have recognized but didn’t. They looked at me with hollow eyes, as if they too had once answered a knock and been forgotten.
Behind me, another door waited, cracked open just enough for someone—or something—to slip through.
The second knock echoed again, but this time, it came from inside.
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