There Comes a Knocking

The first thing Daniel noticed was the knocking.

It wasn’t loud. It never was. Just three soft taps from somewhere down the hallway, followed by nothing.

He looked up from his desk. The office remained unchanged: rows of gray partitions, humming fluorescent lights, the stale smell of coffee that had been burned into permanence. No one else reacted. Marjorie kept typing, her fingers striking the keyboard with mechanical certainty. Evan leaned back in his chair, staring at his monitor without blinking.

Daniel waited for someone to say something.

No one did.

After a moment, he realized something else: no one had looked toward the sound.

Not even by accident.

He turned back to his screen.

He had started three weeks ago, and in those three weeks, he had learned how things worked. He had learned when to arrive—8:52 a.m., not earlier, not later. He had learned where to place his mug in the breakroom—second shelf, slightly to the right of the chipped blue one no one used. He had learned that the printer on the left jammed every Thursday at 11:17, and that when it did, no one fixed it until 11:23.

These things were not written down. No one had told him.

But he had learned.

The knocking came again.

Three taps.

Closer this time.

He froze, listening.

Nothing followed.

He glanced at Marjorie.

She did not look up.

He noticed her shoulders were tense. Her hands continued moving, but slower now, deliberate.

The knocking moved past their row.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A shape crossed the frosted glass wall at the far end of the office. Not a clear silhouette, just a distortion, like heat rising from asphalt.

Daniel opened his mouth.

Marjorie cleared her throat.

Not loudly. Just enough.

He stopped.

She did not look at him. She simply adjusted her glasses and continued typing.

The knocking faded.

No one spoke.

—

At lunch, Daniel sat across from Evan in the breakroom.

Evan stirred his coffee without drinking it.

Daniel hesitated, then said, “Do you ever hear that?”

Evan did not look up.

“Hear what?”

“The knocking.”

Evan stopped stirring.

The spoon rested against the inside of the mug. He left it there.

“What knocking?”

Daniel gestured vaguely toward the hallway.

Evan followed the gesture, but his eyes did not focus on anything specific.

He waited.

Then he picked up the spoon again and resumed stirring.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

Daniel nodded.

He did not bring it up again.

—

The next time it happened, Daniel was ready.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He did not look up immediately.

He let it pass his row.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He watched Marjorie instead.

She had stopped typing.

Her fingers hovered above the keys, not touching them.

Her breathing had changed—shallow, controlled.

The knocking stopped.

She resumed typing.

Only then did Daniel look toward the hallway.

It was empty.

—

Over time, he began to notice other things.

The way people adjusted their posture at certain moments. The way conversations paused mid-sentence and resumed later without explanation. The way the air seemed to tighten around certain sounds.

And always, the knocking.

Always three taps.

Never more. Never less.

One afternoon, it came from behind him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He felt it rather than heard it. A vibration through the floor, through the legs of his chair, into his spine.

He held still.

He watched Evan.

Evan’s eyes were closed.

Just for a moment.

Then he opened them and continued working.

The knocking moved on.

Daniel exhaled.

He had not realized he had been holding his breath.

—

Weeks passed.

The knocking became part of the office.

Not familiar. Not normal.

But present.

One evening, Daniel stayed late.

The others left at 5:00 p.m. exactly, as they always did. Chairs slid back. Computers shut down. Lights flickered once, twice.

By 5:02, he was alone.

He finished his report.

Saved the file.

Sat in the quiet.

The office sounded different when empty. The hum of electricity was louder. The air felt thicker.

He stood.

Collected his things.

Turned toward the exit.

Tap.

He froze.

It had never been just one before.

He waited.

Tap.

His chest tightened.

Tap.

Behind him.

He did not turn around.

He stood there, listening.

Nothing followed.

The silence stretched.

He realized he was breathing too fast.

He forced himself to slow down.

His hand rested on the strap of his bag.

He could feel something else now.

Expectation.

He thought of Marjorie’s stillness. Evan’s closed eyes. The way everyone seemed to know exactly how long to wait.

He waited.

The air shifted.

He did not turn around.

Eventually, the feeling passed.

Not suddenly. Gradually. Like pressure releasing from a sealed room.

He exhaled.

He walked to the door.

—

The next morning, he arrived at 8:52.

Marjorie nodded to him.

Evan stirred his coffee.

Everything was the same.

At 10:14, the knocking came.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Daniel did not look up.

He kept typing.

His fingers moved steadily across the keyboard.

The knocking paused beside his desk.

He felt it there.

Waiting.

He did not acknowledge it.

He did not stop.

After a moment, it moved on.

He kept typing.

Marjorie’s shoulders relaxed.

Evan blinked.

The office breathed again.

Daniel did not think about it.

He did not need to.

He had learned.