Level 1 - The Velvet Fears

Kids in the neighborhood love their little games.

Every afternoon around four, five of them run wild between the houses. They laugh too loud, leave their bikes scattered on sidewalks, and knock on doors just to sprint away before anyone answers. Just a game, they say. No harm done.

Jamie, Ben, Lila, Mateo, and Grace. Always together. Always knocking.

My door’s been their favorite lately. They hit it once, sharp and fast, then disappear like smoke. The first few times, I yelled through the window. That only made them laugh harder.

Once, Jamie even waved.

I stopped reacting. Figured if I ignored them, they’d move on to someone else. But they didn’t.

Every day, they came back. Same time. Same game.

I started counting the knocks, like maybe that would make it feel less personal. Less like I was being singled out.

“Just kids,” I muttered each time. “They’ll grow out of it.”

I wish they had.

Because three days later, the game changed.

It started three nights later.

I woke to a knock. One single knock—loud and hollow—cutting through the silence like a bone snapped clean. I rolled over and checked the time: 3:03 AM.

I waited.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No whispers. No sound at all, except the slow thud of my own heartbeat.

I turned on the porch light and crept to the window. The steps were empty. The hedges still. The whole street lay stretched in stillness, untouched by wind or life.

“Dream,” I whispered. But my mouth was dry, and my fingers shook.

The next night, it happened again.

3:03 AM.

One knock.

This time I didn’t move for a full minute. Just lay there, frozen in the dark, the covers pulled tight around me like that could keep the sound out. When I finally got up the nerve to check, the porch looked the same—untouched, ordinary.

Ordinary doesn’t knock at your door in the middle of the night.

The third night, I didn’t sleep. I waited by the window, arms wrapped around myself.

At exactly 3:03, the knock came again—forceful, deliberate. The kind of knock that demanded to be answered.

I flipped on the porch light before the echo finished bouncing off the walls.

No one.

The knocks got worse.

Some nights, they came twice. Three times. Always at 3:03 AM. Never earlier. Never later.

Once, I heard dragging footsteps across the gravel path after the knock. Slow, steady. Like someone was pulling something heavy—or maybe dragging themselves.

When I checked the door cam footage, the screen stayed black. Not blank. Not glitched. Just black, like something was blocking the lens.

The mailbox was next—ripped clean off its post. I found it lying in the driveway, twisted like a wet rag. The screws were still in the wood, but the box had been torn off around them.

My lights started flickering each night at exactly 3:03. They would go off for three seconds, then come back on—always in that rhythm. I tried replacing the bulbs. Nothing changed.

I called the police.

They came, walked around the property, made some notes.

“No signs of forced entry,” they said. “Could be raccoons. Kids pulling a prank.”

I didn’t argue. What could I say?

But I knew better.

Raccoons don’t scratch symbols into your windowpane.

Kids don’t leave muddy footprints that stop at your door—and never continue.

And kids don’t kill.

My childhood friend Evan was found dead last week. No injuries. No wounds. Just collapsed in the middle of his apartment floor, eyes wide open.

His neighbors reported strange noises. Thudding. Knocking. And a hollow voice behind the walls.

They said it went on for hours before they called someone.

By then, he was already cold.

Something clicked then.

I pulled out my old yearbooks, fingers trembling as I flipped through dusty pages. I made a list. Names I hadn’t thought about in decades. People I once knew better than anyone.

I started searching.

Obituaries. Police reports. News blurbs buried in local archives.

Gone. All of them.

Casey drowned in her bathtub. Alone. No signs of struggle.

Danny burned alive in his garage. No accelerant found.

Tasha’s car wrapped around a tree on a dry, empty road. No skid marks.

Each death more senseless than the last. But all eerily quiet. Sudden. Clean.

And I—I was the last one left.

That’s when the memory came back.

We’d played this game too. Back when the world felt safer. Smaller.

We thought we were funny—little daredevils running through the streets. We picked a house and knocked, then fled before the door opened. Again and again, until we hit the one at the edge of the neighborhood.

An old man lived there. Alone. Strange.

He never answered.

Until one night, I knocked alone.

I was twelve. It was late. I don’t know what dared me to do it.

I remember my knuckles hitting the wood. The silence after.

And then, the door creaked open.

Just a sliver.

And through that sliver, I saw him.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at me—eyes glassy, skin pale like candle wax.

I ran.

A week later, he died. “Heart failure,” the paper said.

We made jokes about it. Said I scared him to death.

But now… I know better.

The knock had started something.

“We should never have played that stupid game,” I whispered. And my voice shook.

The knocking came back stronger.

Not just louder—heavier, like it carried weight. Like whoever, whatever, stood on the other side was no longer pretending to be human.

The whole house groaned under the pressure. Floorboards creaked overhead, even when no one was up there. The ceiling let out low sighs like it was breathing. Or bracing.

One night, I passed the hallway mirror and stopped.

Something about the reflection felt off.

Not just tired eyes or a sleepless face—something deeper. Distorted.

I leaned in.

And then the mirror cracked.

A thin fracture burst across the glass, running straight between my eyes in the reflection. I stepped back—but before I could breathe, the entire mirror shattered.

A sharp, ringing snap. Glass exploded outward in a spray of silver shards, raining onto the floor around my feet.

I didn’t move.

I just stared at the empty frame, and the space where my face had been.

Then the lights went out.

All of them. Every bulb in the house.

The only glow came from the moon outside, spilling silver across the floor. And beyond it—shadows. Shapes pacing just out of view. A shuddering ripple in the dark, like the night itself had gathered into a shape and pressed itself against the windows.

I turned every lock. Hammered nails into the frame. Moved the couch, a bookcase, anything heavy.

I sat with a knife in one hand and a flashlight in the other. It flickered like it had a pulse—3:03 AM. Off. On. Off. On.

I knew what it wanted.

Repayment.

And I was the last.

We’d all played the game. Knocked. Laughed. Ran.

But it wasn’t a joke. It was a summons. A promise. A pact disguised as fun.

Hundreds of years, maybe more. Passed on from group to group, street to street. A cycle with no origin and no end.

Just rules.

Knock. Wait. Run.

One by one, it came for the ones who forgot what they’d started.

I didn’t want to be next.

So I whispered into the dark.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please—”

But the final knock came anyway.

Not like before.

This time, it hit the door like a hammer through bone. Wood splintered. Nails popped from the frame.

I didn’t reach it in time.

I didn’t see what came through.

All I remember is the silence. Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that devours.

The kind that follows you.

The house stood quiet on the corner of the street. Neat, ordinary. The kind of place with trimmed hedges and stacked recycling bins. A lawn that hadn’t grown wild. Curtains still tied back.

Nothing strange has never happened.

Except now, the door was wide open.

Inside, the lights were still out.

Furniture lay scattered—toppled chairs, a shattered lamp, a bookshelf split in two. Near the hallway mirror, a pool of blood had dried into the floorboards, dark and sunken.

The mirror itself was cracked clean down the middle.

No fingerprints. No signs of forced entry. No missing items.

But no body.

No trace of the person who lived there.

Just the echo of footsteps that didn’t belong.

And a sense, for those who stayed too long, that something was watching from behind the glass.

Waiting.

Grace is grown now.

She moved to a house two towns over. Works in sales. Married. Two kids.

Last week, the neighborhood kids began playing that old knocking game.

Laughing. Running. Hitting doors and vanishing into the dusk.

A few days later, a knock woke her.

3:03 AM.

She thought it was a branch tapping against the siding. Or maybe one of her kids sleepwalking.

The next night, it came again.

On the third night, after Ben was found dead in his locked bathroom, eyes wide open, Grace stayed up.

She couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was wrong. Familiar.

She opened her laptop and started searching old names. Childhood friends. One by one, she found their obituaries. All dead. Accidents. Illness. No survivors.

Her memory stirred, muddy and distant.

She remembered the game.

She remembered knocking on a neighbor’s door.

Laughed about it. Forgot it.

Until now.

She searched the neighborhood she grew up in. Found the name. The address. The story.

She paled.

The knock came again.

She turned toward the sound, but her gaze caught on a hallway mirror.

She stared.

Her own reflection, pale, wide-eyed, breath held tight.

And then... a single crack bloomed across her reflection’s cheek.

Not the glass.

Only the face inside the mirror—like porcelain breaking from the inside out.

And her reflection kept smiling.

Some games have rules.

Some rules come with a price.