The Last Knock at Midnight Chapter 2 (Continuation): The Key Outside
Chapter 2 (Continuation): The Key Outside
Ethan’s hand trembled, the smartphone a cold weight against his palm. The screen pulsed with the words Unknown Number.
"Who are you? Is this some kind of joke?" Ethan shouted.
A wet, ragged sob echoed from the speaker. Then came the breathing—heavy, rhythmic, and suffocatingly familiar.
"This is not a joke, Ethan," the voice said.
Ethan froze. The tone, the cadence, the slight rasp at the end of the sentence—it was his own voice.
"What is this? How are you doing this?"
"You’re looking through the peephole, aren’t you?" the voice asked. "You see nothing outside because it’s standing right behind the door, pressed against the wall. If you open the door, it won’t come inside. You will go outside."
Ethan recoiled from the doorknob, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Why should I believe you?" he whispered.
"Because exactly one second from now, your coffee cup will slip from your hand and shatter on the floor."
Ethan opened his mouth to scream, but a sudden, biting chill surged through his fingers. His grip vanished. The ceramic mug plummeted.
The porcelain shrieked as it hit the hardwood. Brown liquid splashed across his toes, searing his skin, but he didn't flinch. He only stared at the shards.
The line went dead. The screen flickered to black.
Silence swallowed the house, then broke. A sound emerged from the other side of the front door. Not a knock, but a slow, rhythmic scraping. Nails dragged across the wood, a high-pitched screech that set Ethan's teeth on edge.
He crept toward the door and pressed his eye to the peephole. Thick, milky fog choked the porch. Then, a face drifted into view.
It was his own face.
The skin looked like wet parchment. The eyes were void-black pits, lacking iris or white. A smile stretched too wide, splitting the cheeks in a way no human jaw should allow.
Ethan scrambled backward, hitting the wall. Logic dissolved. He remembered the landlord's cryptic warning.
"If I ever come, don't open the door," Mr. Holloway had muttered.
Ethan lunged for his laptop. The internet was dead, but a lone PDF remained in his downloads: Records of Blackwood Cottage. He scrolled frantically.
"On a night in 1996, the owner opened the door at midnight," he read aloud. "The next day, he disappeared. Thirteen years later, he was found—aged beyond recognition. His name was Mr. Holloway."
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The house was a time trap. Opening the door after midnight triggered a swap; the occupant vanished into a void, and a distorted shadow took their place.
The lights flickered and died, plunging the room into ink.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound didn't come from the front door. It came from the living room window.
Ethan turned. Condensation clung to the glass, smeared by a finger to reveal words written in dark, visceral blood.
"You didn’t open the door... so I came inside."
Ethan looked up. A figure stood in the fog, clutching the rusty iron key Holloway had given him.
