It Knocks - Part 3 nosleep

It Knocks Part 1
It Knocks Part 2

I moved out when I was seventeen years old, a month before I turned eighteen. There were many reasons, including the suffocating and debilitating anger, fear, and depression that overtook me after years of living in terror of the outside world after darkness fell. For the first time in nearly a decade, I was happy. The bloody, violent nightmares ceased. My body didn't hum with negative, terrifying energy as I tried to sleep at night. I could walk outside my small apartment after dark and never feel the slightest suggestion of a predatory, ancient gaze full of anger and harm. I wasn't prey anymore – it was all so normal, for the first time in my memory.

I didn't see my parents very often, even though the college I attended was less than seven minutes from their house. We weren't on the best of terms since I'd moved out; my mother hadn't approved of my early marriage (a disapproval that, in hindsight, was entirely reasonable and appropriate, but I wouldn't learn that until five years and one divorce later), and took her displeasure out on my father, who was enthusiastically in favour of it. I did call home at least once a week, however, and a common theme of discussion became how the Thing had seemed to go dormant, much to my chagrin. It wasn't something I wanted to think about, now that I was free from its sinister ministrations, and her insistence on discussing it seemed almost a spiteful punishment.

"We think It's moved out to the bunkhouse," she casually mentioned during one conversation. My interest was immediately piqued in spite of myself; while I didn't particularly like to talk about It, and tried to change the subject whenever she'd insist on bringing it up, I was curious.

"Your brother thinks it's because you're gone," she continued. "No one's ever in that room anymore, but your brother and his girlfriend have been in and out of the old photography room lately, and now whenever we go out to the deep freezer, we feel that same thing coming from that doorway into the alcove. He thinks that it just goes wherever there's the most life, since it can't get in the house, and it can't have you."

"What a charming way to put it," I replied dryly, though my stomach had bottomed out as it always did when one of them pointed out how fixated the Thing had been with me. "Remind me not to go anywhere near the bunkhouse when Rob and I come down for dinner this weekend."

I should have kept my mouth shut - a remark like that was practically begging for disaster, and, eager to never disappoint an expectant fan, Disaster showed up right on schedule. That weekend, my mother was cooking in the kitchen while Rob and I helped my father outside with some of the yard work. We were just about finished when my mother opened the kitchen door and yelled at me to run out to the bunkhouse to grab a fresh gallon of milk from our second refrigerator.

I don't know why I didn't refuse to go. I could have told her that I was too busy, or to send my brother, or asked my husband to go get it for me. There were a million things that I could have done differently and perhaps none of this would be happening now, but instead, I merely handed Rob my shovel and dutifully trudged through the back yard and into the bunkhouse.

Our bunkhouse was a long, old outbuilding made of wood that, once upon a time, had been painted red, but was now all but peeled off. The roof was made of tin, and the entire thing groaned with even the slightest breeze. Even on a sunny day in the middle of spring, it was creepy. In the late November dusk, it was nothing short of terrifying. I flicked on the light, and as if by instinct, my eyes fell on the sliding door that separated storage from the photography nook. Familiar icicles stabbed at the back of my neck and my throat closed up immediately. I was frozen in place, eyes glued to that door; that small, prey-minded part of my limbic system assured me that death (if I was lucky) was right behind that door, and it could smell me. It was time to make a decision – fight or flight.

Flight won out, hands down. I turned and lunged for the bunkhouse door, which immediately slammed shut with a resolute, almost taunting "THUD". The lights flickered out and I was plunged into darkness; the only light that penetrated the building was the faint glow of the porch lamp. It wasn't much, but it was more than enough to illuminate the photography room door, which was slowly starting to slide open.

"DADDY!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs, beating my fists against the door that separated me from the outside world. I kept pulling at the door knob, trying to twist it, then trying to shake it, something, anything to get it to open. Nothing. "DADDY! DAADDYY!" I screamed again, reverting back to the name from my childhood, when I firmly believed that he could keep me safe from anything. Where was he? Why wasn't he coming? Almost against my will, my eyes slid back over to the photography room. The door was a quarter of the way open, and I could almost feel the blackness within - it seemed to seep out in dark waves, crashing over me in a pool of cold terror. It was coming.

It's a curious feeling, the exact moment when you know that you are going to die. My life didn't flash before my eyes, there was no calm acceptance or healing, peaceful feeling. There was just the stark, bleak knowledge that if a miracle did not occur in the next few seconds, before the door finished opening, then it was over for me. I'd never really grow up, or have children, or graduate college, or even be old enough to legally drink. I'd be dragged into that darkness, where, if I was very, very lucky, I would eventually die. I didn't know how long it would take, or what would come before it, but there was no doubt in my mind that survival would be even a dim hope, let alone a viable option.

The door was halfway open when my miracle came in the form of Rob slamming the full force of his weight against the main door. As if by magic, as though it had never been held shut by some ill-intented force, the door gave way and flung open, knocking me down to the ground directly in front of the very room I was trying to avoid. I let out a wail made from pure anguish and fear before crawling forward, struggling to stand up. I pulled myself upright and started for the door again; the instant I made my move, I felt something tear at my ankle. It didn't feel like a hand, or anything even resembling an appendage or body part; it was so cold that it felt like fire, and seemed to cut straight to my bone. The pain was unimaginable, and I felt another shriek escape my throat.

"Ali! What the hell? Ali!" My husband yelled, reaching forward and grabbing my wrist, pulling me as I kicked my free foot behind me, trying desperately to make contact with something, anything, to free myself. There was only darkness. "What the fuck?" He swore, doubling his efforts. Just like the door, all of a sudden, I was falling forward with ease, as though nothing had ever held me back. I scrambled to my feet again, and bolted through the doorway, tumbling out and spilling onto the soft grass of the backyard. My body was wracked with sobs; there wasn't enough air, I couldn't breathe, and my lungs were screaming for oxygen. Had I escaped that blackness just to suffocate to death out here in the grass? My fingers scrabbled against the ground, dirt clumping under my nails as I tried to find something to hold onto, but spots swam in my vision, my diaphragm ached, and I was tired, so very tired, I just wanted to sleep... sleep...

Pain flooded my face, and my eyes snapped open as tears welled up in them. My throat seemed to open, and a whoosh of air filled my lungs. Rob's frightened face hovered above me as I gasped, the sharp slap to my cheek bringing me out of my panic attack and back into reality. Every single part of my body hurt, and my head was so heavy, along with all of my limbs. I couldn't do anything but lie there, panting, staring up at Rob. He, too, was out of breath, and wild-eyed. I'd told him about everything that had happened to me in my childhood, but I could tell that he had only been humouring me up until that very moment.

My parents finally made an appearance; my mother looked grim, while my father's stoic face was the same as it had always been as he started towards the bunkhouse. "NO," I shrieked, forcing the words out of my mouth despite how much my throat hurt from all the screaming.

"Rosalie, stop it," he replied, not hesitating even a little despite my protest. I struggled to sit up, pushing up to my elbows before my shaky arms tried to give out on me. Rob helped me sit the rest of the way, though I dared not try to stand yet. I twisted around to watch my father's figure retreat into the dark of the building. The light flickered on, and from my position in the yard, I could see the door to the photography room.

Closed.

I let out a strangled sob, shaking my head in disbelief. I heard the fridge door open and close, and my father turned the light off behind him, then closed the door. Rob pulled me to my feet, and I immediately yelped in pain and nearly collapsed back onto the grass before he caught me and steadied me against him. With his aid, I hobbled inside and was eased onto the couch in the living room. My father stayed outside, and my mother retreated back into the kitchen to finish dinner; neither inquired as to what had happened, or why I was having an anxiety attack out on the grass of their backyard. It was simply business as usual.

"Rosalie, what the hell was that?" Rob finally asked, shaking his head, his voice breaking. He sounded as tired as I felt, and an inexplicable feeling of guilt surged over me. I had never wanted him to be a part of this; I knew he didn't believe me when I'd told him my past, but I would have preferred to be thought "too into scary stories", rather than have them be proven true. It all felt so much less innocent now, as though everything had been tainted with an ugly stain, never to be removed.

"I warned you," was all I could manage to reply, my voice hoarse. I winced as I spoke; I had really done a number on myself, and speaking hurt. Everything hurt. I tried to stand again and instantly ended up back on the couch. There was something seriously wrong with my ankle, and as I raised it for inspection, we both saw it at the same time – Rob's sharp gasp was in sync with the bile that rose in my throat, burning my already raw esophagus.

Around my ankle was a burn mark, shiny and red. It looked as though I had been branded in a perfect circle just above my foot, as though a cuff or shackle made of fire had been attached.

"What the fuck?" Rob muttered. "What is that?" I could only shake my head, afraid that if I tried to talk, I would throw up. That single mark made it all undeniably real, and I was on the verge of hysteria. I heard Rob hiss again in surprise, and I followed his gaze to see my father standing in the kitchen doorway. I had no idea how long he had been there, or why, but he was simply staring at me silently, an indescribable look upon his weathered face, before he turned, still silent, and walked away.

 

Years passed, and the nightmares returned with a vengeance. I visited my parents very, very infrequently, and only for a few hours during the day – never at night. That feeling of sinister observation never faded, and, disturbingly, I began to feel an insatiable desire to go back into the bunkhouse, to open the photography room door, and step inside. It became harder and harder to resist, until one day, I found myself stepping through the threshold, my hand gripping the handle, and pulling the door to the side. It was nearly open when a heavy hand came down on my shoulder. I let out a small scream and whirled around to face my father, who asked in a flat, emotionless voice, if there was something I needed. I wordlessly shook my head and fled back inside the house. After that, I stopped visiting, preferring my parents to come to me.

Rob and I ended up divorcing, not out of any horrible or even particularly heartbreaking circumstances, but from the simple fact that we were too young to commit to forever, and eventually grew up – and apart. I met someone new, fell in love fast and hard, and we ended up moving back to his home state of Iowa. While I had grown up in northern California (not the Bay Area, mind you, but real NorCal, only half an hour from the Oregon border) and eventually moved to southern Oregon, it turned out that Iowa wasn't much different, aside from the lack of mountains in the horizon. While I missed being so close to the coast, it was worth it to be 2,000 miles away from Rob, my parents, and my past. I've never once regretted it.

Jake and I married fairly quickly after getting back to Iowa. Within a few months, I was pregnant with our first, who turned out to be a boy that we named Isaiah. Our second was a surprise, who was born fourteen months after – a girl we named Noelle. It was hard, of course, to have two kids so young and so close together, but we managed. My nightmares again faded almost as soon as we settled into our first apartment, and while Jake had believed me completely when I told him about the incidents from my past, we didn't talk about it very often. The one and only time I returned to my parents house was to introduce him to them, and on the way back home, he turned to me and very simply asked, "What the hell is wrong with that bunkhouse?" I had not told him anything until that point, but it was such a relief to be able to spill my guts and not be doubted.

It's been a happy life. Jake makes enough money for me to stay at home with the kids. We just had our third baby, a daughter named Mira. Isaiah is nearly three, and Noelle almost two. We're going to start the process to buy our own house soon, and we couldn't be more excited to get out of this 200 year old house that has been threatening to fall apart for the last two years. Things aren't perfect, but they've been very, very close.

Until the other night.

Isaiah's shrieks woke us up at three in the morning. Jake and I bolted down the stairs, a metal bat in his hand. I threw open the door to the bedroom that the kids shared – Isaiah was sitting up in bed, screaming, while Noelle was crying uncontrollably in her crib. Both wore identical looks of terror. Jake and I tried to calm them down, speaking in soothing tones and giving lots of hugs and cuddles. They settled relatively quickly, the overhead light seeming to comfort them. As their sobs and gasping breaths subsided, I turned to Isaiah, who, at just under three, was already speaking in nearly full sentences, thanks to the speech therapy he'd graduated from four months earlier.

"Honey, what happened?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light and steady.

His face immediately darkened and he let out another little hiccup-sob combo and buried his face in my shoulder, muttering something into my shirt. I pulled away ever-so slightly, kissing the top of his head, and asked him to repeat himself. He did, much louder this time; his words sent a bolt of panic straight to my heart, and Jake and I exchanged silent looks of horror over the heads of our children:

"Mommy, I don't like the knocking!"

Submitted August 29, 2016 at 02:14AM by BabylonByCandlelight http://ift.tt/2bKsYys nosleep