The Last Knock At exactly 2:17 a.m., the knocking always began. Three slow knocks. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… patient. Ethan had moved into the old apartment a week ago. The landlord warned him with a nervous laugh: “Walls are thin here. You might hear… things.” The first night, Ethan ignored the sound. The second night, he checked the door—nothing. The third night, he looked through the peephole. Darkness. No hallway. No lights. Just black, like the door opened into a void. That’s when the knocking came again—this time from inside the apartment. Ethan turned slowly. His bedroom door was open. On the wall, written in something dark and wet, were the words: “YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE LOOKED.” The knocking stopped. Because whatever was outside… was already inside.