The Knocker

You hear me. You always hear me. Night. Your home. The door is locked. You sit in the darkness, arms wrapped around your knees. Outside the window — no moon, no stars. Only cold and silence. The silence is broken by a knock. Thump. You flinch. Thump-thump. Not a branch. Not an animal. Someone is standing outside. You know who. You approach the door. Hold your breath. Press your eye to the crack. He's there. Tall. Black. The pale smudge of a face. In his hand — an axe, pressed against his thigh. He doesn't move. He just stares right at you, even though your eye shouldn't be visible through the crack. Then he leans toward the gap. And you hear a whisper. His whisper. Low, hoarse, warm like breath against your ear: — "You… you… you…" He knows your name. He knows where you sleep. He kn