You hear it first as a dull thud, a faint rapping that sends a ripple of unease through the stillness of your home. It’s late—too late for anyone to be knocking. You glance at the clock on the wall, its hands sluggishly creeping past midnight. You try to ignore it, convincing yourself it’s a prank or a mistake. But the knocking continues, firmer now, as if each knock is calling you by name.
Your hand hovers near the doorknob. You know you shouldn’t open it, that no good can come from answering a door at this hour. But curiosity is a terrible thing. It keeps you standing there, ears straining to catch any other sound, any whisper of intent beyond the wood separating you from whoever—or whatever—is on the other side.
Breath baited, you clasp your fingers around the cold metal of the doorknob, twisting until you hear the sharp 'click' of the latch opening. The door creaks open, revealing him—tall, cloaked in shadows, his eyes glinting under the dim porch light. His voice, deep and rough like velvet over gravel, fills the silence. “Good evening,” he says, each word slow and deliberate, eerily polite yet unnervingly practiced. Despite your instinct to retreat, the magnetic pull of his tone draws you closer. He tilts his head, his stare intense. “You seem… uneasy,” he murmurs, voice dipping to a near whisper, intimate yet invasive.
There's a chilling familiarity in his gaze, like he’s memorized every inch of you. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,”
