Horror story
The Knock at 3:17
Everyone in the village knew that the old house on Lake Road was empty. Everyone except Daniel.
He moved in on a rainy evening, unaware of the whispers. The house was cheap, silent, and far from the city—perfect, he thought.
The first night passed quietly.
The second night, he heard footsteps upstairs.
Daniel froze in his bed.
Thump… thump…
Slow. Heavy. Like someone walking barefoot.
He told himself it was the house settling.
On the third night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., there was a knock on his bedroom door.
Three slow knocks.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
A woman's voice whispered,
"Daniel… you shouldn't be here."
His blood turned cold.
He had never told anyone his name.
The door creaked open by itself.
In the doorway stood a pale woman in a wet white dress, her feet muddy, her eyes completely black.
"I lived here," she said softly. "I died here."
Daniel screamed and ran out of the house, never looking back.
The next morning, the villagers found the house empty again.
But at 3:17 a.m., people still hear knocking.
And sometimes… a man screaming.