When I moved into my new apartment, I felt relief more than excitement. A new city, a new job, a chance to start fresh without anyone knowing my past missteps. The place itself was simple—clean, quiet, and finally my own. What I wanted most was routine and calm.
I didn’t get either.
Within the first week, the knocking started.
Every night, without fail, at exactly 9:15 p.m.—three firm knocks, a pause, then two more. The pattern never varied. The first time I opened the door, an elderly woman stood there, slightly hunched, gray hair pulled back tightly. Her eyes were sharp, almost probing.
“Your music is too loud,” she said bluntly.
“I’m not playing any music,” I replied, honestly confused.
She frowned, muttered something under her breath, and walked away.
The next night, the knock came again—same time, same rhythm. This time she asked about a stray cat. There was no cat. Another night, she complained about footsteps above her ceiling, even though I lived below her. Sometimes the questions were oddly random: Had the mail come early? Was the elevator making strange noises? Did I smell gas?
If I didn’t answer right away, she didn’t stop.
She knocked again. And again. And again.
I tried ignoring it. I’d sit perfectly still in the dark, heart pounding, convinced she somehow knew I was inside. The knocking wouldn’t end until I opened the door. It felt invasive, as though my evenings no longer belonged to me.
At first, I felt sympathy. Then annoyance. Eventually, resentment.
I worked long hours and came home drained, already doubting myself in this new job and unfamiliar city. That nightly knock became the one thing I dreaded most. Friends dismissed it. “She’s probably lonely,” they said. “Just ignore her.”
I couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow it.
Then came the night everything broke.
It had been one of the worst days I’d had in years. My boss publicly criticized my work. The train stalled in the rain. I got home soaked, shoes ruined, patience gone. All I wanted was quiet.
At 9:15 p.m., the knock came.
Something inside me snapped.
I yanked the door open before she could knock again. She began to speak, but I cut her off.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “Why do you knock every single night? You complain about things that don’t exist. You make things up. I haven’t done anything to you.”
She opened her mouth, then stopped.
“I live here,” I continued, words spilling out. “I work all day. I’m exhausted. It’s not my job to keep you company. It’s not my fault you’re lonely. And honestly—maybe if you weren’t so irritating, people wouldn’t avoid you.”
The hallway fell silent.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t explain. She just looked at me, eyes glassy, then lowered her gaze. Without a word, she turned and walked slowly away.
I shut the door, heart racing. Guilt followed immediately, but I buried it. I told myself I’d finally stood up for myself.
The next morning, while checking my mail, the building manager approached me. He was kind, always measured.
“I heard about last night,” he said gently.
My stomach sank. “I’m sorry if we were loud,” I said quickly.
He shook his head. “She’s not upset. But I think you should know something.”
He paused before continuing.
“She waits by her door every night around nine,” he said. “She’s done it for years—ever since an incident in this building.”
My chest tightened.
“A young woman who lived alone didn’t make it home one night,” he continued quietly. “Your neighbor noticed your routine—how late you usually arrive. She knocks at the same time every evening just to make sure you’re home safe. She listens for your voice. That’s all.”
I couldn’t speak.
“She doesn’t care about noise,” he added softly. “She just wanted to know you were okay.”
That night, there was no knock.
And somehow, the silence hurt more than the sound ever had.
Since then, I’ve never heard a knock the same way again.