Every Time It Rains, Someone Knocks at My Window

Rain never used to scare me. Growing up, storms were comforting. I loved the sound of rain tapping against rooftops, the cold smell of wet earth drifting through cracked windows, and the occasional rumble of thunder shaking the sky. Rain meant staying indoors, wrapped in blankets, watching old movies with a cup of tea. But now? I hate the rain. Because every time it rains… Someone knocks at my window. It started six months ago, shortly after I moved into apartment 9B. The building was old—one of those forgotten brick apartments squeezed between modern glass towers. Cheap rent. Quiet neighborhood. The landlord warned me the plumbing was strange and the heating sometimes failed, but I didn’t care. I needed a fresh start. After my mother died, silence became unbearable. My apartment back home felt haunted by memories, so I packed my things and moved to a city where nobody knew me. I thought loneliness would hurt less if it happened somewhere unfamiliar. For a while, things were normal. Then came the storm. It was around two in the morning when I first heard it. *Tap.* I opened my eyes. The room was dark except for flashes of lightning leaking through the curtains. *Tap.* *Tap.* Three soft knocks. I frowned. My bedroom window overlooked an alleyway. On the seventh floor. No balcony. No fire escape. Nothing outside except empty air. I sat up in bed, staring toward the curtain. The sound stopped. “Probably a branch,” I muttered. But there were no trees near the building. Still half asleep, I ignored it and went back to bed. The next morning, I found something strange. Fingerprints. On the outside of the glass. Long. Thin. As if someone had pressed their hands against the window. I told myself there had to be an explanation. Maybe a maintenance worker. Maybe kids playing some bizarre prank. Maybe my imagination. Then it rained again. Three nights later. Exactly 2:13 a.m. *Tap.* *Tap.* *Tap.* The same rhythm. The same careful knocking. Slow. Patient. Almost polite. Fear crept into my stomach. I stood frozen beside my bed. The knocking came again. Three taps. I forced myself toward the curtain. Every instinct screamed not to look. But curiosity won. I pulled it open. Nothing. Just rainwater running down the glass. Dark sky. Empty alley below. I exhaled shakily. Then lightning flashed. And for half a second— I saw a face. Pressed against the outside of the window. Pale skin. Black eyes. A smile too wide to be human. I screamed and stumbled backward. When lightning struck again— It was gone. I barely slept that night. The next day, I called my landlord. “You’re not the first tenant to complain,” he said quietly. I laughed nervously. “About noises?” “No,” he replied. “About the knocking.” Cold spread through me. “What do you mean?” Long silence. Then: “Apartment 9B stays empty for a reason.” I almost moved out that same day. But fear mixed strangely with curiosity. I needed answers. That evening, I visited the library and searched through old newspaper archives about the building. I wish I hadn’t. Twenty-three years ago, during a violent thunderstorm, a woman named Eleanor Vale disappeared from apartment 9B. Neighbors claimed she’d called the police repeatedly. Said someone was knocking at her window every time it rained. Nobody believed her. Until officers arrived one stormy night. The apartment was empty. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. Only one disturbing detail. Written repeatedly across the bedroom wall in shaky handwriting: “Don’t let it in.” I stopped reading after that. Rain started again three nights later. Heavy. Violent. Thunder rattled the walls. At exactly 2:13 a.m. Tap. Tap. Tap. I sat frozen on my couch. The knocking continued. Steady. Patient. Like something knew I was listening. My phone buzzed suddenly. Unknown Number. I answered with shaking hands. Static. Then breathing. Heavy breathing. “Hello?” A voice whispered: “Don’t open the curtain.” My chest tightened. “Who is this?” “It pretends.” The voice sounded terrified. Broken. Familiar. Thunder exploded overhead. The knocking grew louder. Tap. Tap. Tap. “It gets stronger when you look,” the voice whispered. “What are you talking about?” Silence. Then: “You looked last time.” The line cut dead. A chill crawled up my spine. Because somehow— The voice sounded exactly like mine. I locked myself in the bathroom. Hours passed. The knocking never stopped. Three taps. Pause. Three taps. Again. Again. Again. By sunrise, the storm ended. And so did the knocking. I didn’t sleep for two days. Instead, I installed cameras. Locked every door. Covered the bedroom window with blankets. But rain returned. And so did it. 2:13 a.m. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then— A sound inside the apartment. Footsteps. Slow. Wet. Moving across my floor. I checked the security footage. Nothing. No one entered. Yet the footsteps continued. Closer. Closer. Stopping outside my bedroom. Then came a knock. Not on the window. On my bedroom door. Three soft taps. I stopped breathing. Something scratched softly against the wood. Then a whisper. “Why won’t you let me in?” My knees nearly gave out. Because the voice belonged to my mother. My mother, who had died six months earlier. Tears filled my eyes instantly. “Mom?” Silence. Then crying. Soft crying. Exactly the way she used to cry when she thought I wasn’t listening. “You left me alone,” the voice whispered. Guilt crashed through me. Every memory. Every regret. Every missed phone call. Thunder shook the apartment. “I miss you,” I whispered. The crying stopped. Then came laughter. Low. Wrong. Twisted. A voice changed. Deepened. Became something impossible. “That always works.” The door handle moved. Slowly. Turning. I ran. Grabbed my keys. Rushed downstairs barefoot into the rain. Behind me— Three knocks echoed from somewhere above. But not from my apartment. From every window in the building. One after another. Like the whole place had awakened. The next morning, I packed everything and left. I never returned. The building was demolished four months later after structural damage. But sometimes, during storms— I still hear it. Three soft knocks against my bedroom window. No matter where I move. No matter what floor I live on. And last night— For the first time— After the third knock… I heard my own voice whisper from outside: “Please don’t ignore me this time.”