It started with the doorbell ringing at 3:03 AM.

I live alone, in a creaky old house perched on the edge of a forest, miles from town. My closest neighbors are half a mile down a winding dirt road, separated by thick pines and overgrown brambles. At that hour, the world outside is dead silent—except for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. So when the bell rang, sharp and insistent, it jolted me awake like a gunshot.

At first, I thought it was a prank. Kids from town, maybe, daring each other to trek out here and mess with the “weird guy” who lives alone. I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop. But then it rang again—two short bursts followed by one long, drawn-out chime. It wasn’t random. It felt deliberate.

“Who is it?” I called, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound tough.

No answer. Just the hum of silence pressing against my ears.

I slid out of bed, bare feet cold against the hardwood, and crept to the front door. The peephole showed nothing but the faint glow of the porch light spilling across the empty driveway. Beyond that, the woods loomed, dark and impenetrable. I let out a shaky breath, locked the deadbolt, and told myself it was nothing. Probably just a malfunction. Old house, old wiring.

The next morning, I found the footprints.

They were etched into the dew-soaked grass, a clear trail leading from the edge of the woods straight to my doorstep. Bare feet, smallish, like a child’s. But there were no prints leading away. Whoever—or whatever—had stood there hadn’t left. Or at least, not by walking.

That night, it happened again. 3:03 AM. Two short rings, one long. I didn’t bother calling out this time. I just lay there, eyes wide, listening to the faint scratching sound that followed—like fingernails dragging across the wood. By the third night, I was sure I saw something move in the shadows beyond the porch—a flicker of pale skin, a glint of eyes.

After nearly a week of this, I’d had enough. I stayed up late, a baseball bat gripped in my sweaty hands, determined to catch the bastard responsible. When the bell rang at 3:03, I didn’t hesitate. I flung the door open so hard it crashed against the wall, the sound echoing into the night.

No one was there.

But something was. A small, crumpled piece of paper, folded into a rough square, was wedged into the doorframe. My stomach twisted as I picked it up, unfolding it with shaking fingers. Four words stared back at me, scrawled in jagged, unsteady handwriting:

“LET US BACK IN.”

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. The ringing kept coming, relentless, mocking. I called the police, desperate for someone—anyone—to make it stop. An officer showed up the following evening, a middle-aged guy with a bored expression. I showed him the note, the footprints, told him about the scratching and the shadows. He scribbled in his notepad, barely looking up.

“Probably just teenagers,” he said, shrugging. “Rural areas like this, they get bored. I’ll drive by tomorrow if it happens again.”

I didn’t argue. What was the point?

That night, the ringing was louder, angrier. Two short, one long. Then the knocking started—slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. And then… the whispers.

“Let us in. We’re so hungry. Please.”

The voices were muffled, pressed against the door like they were trying to seep through the cracks. I backed away, clutching the bat, my heart hammering in my chest. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of desperation.

“Don’t leave us out here. You promised.”

Promised?

That word hit me like a punch. I froze, the bat slipping slightly in my grip. A memory flickered—something I hadn’t thought about in decades. A game we used to play as kids. A stupid, reckless game in the woods behind this very house.