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Knock, Knock	By P.D. Garrett 	The man she buried is back and knocking.	I was curled up at the foot of her bed, sound asleep, when something shifted.	The fur along my thin spine stood on end. The air thickened, like fog in my lungs. Wrong. Heavy.	Even Daisy sensed it. She stirred from the safety of our owner's side and let out a sharp hiss, her body arched like a question mark, eyes locked on the window.	Then it came again.	Knock. Knock. Knock.	The glass trembled. A shadow pressed in, slow and steady, the sound flat and final.	But our owner didn’t wake. Daisy’s hiss only made her grunt and roll over, pulling the duvet to her chin like a shield against whatever was out there.	“Wake up! Something’s out there!”	Knock. Knock. Knock.	I jumped onto her back, barking as loud as my little Pomeranian lungs could manage. My chest puffed out, doing my best to sound bigger than I was.	Still nothing.	I climbed to her pillow, stood on her face, and barked right into her ear.	No response.	I froze, my gaze fixed on the window.	The shadow moved.	It looked like… him. The man she hit.	That night was quiet. I remember the hum of the tires and the way the streetlights stretched across the windshield like lazy ghosts. I was riding shotgun, just watching the road, when—BAM!	The car jolted. I flew down to the floorboard, landing with a yelp.	“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she cursed, throwing the gearshift into park and stumbling out into the dark.	Then came the scream.	Not loud—but sharp, cut short like a matchstick. It made my fur stand on end.	She ran back to the car, shaking, her breathing wild and shallow.	“What am I gonna do? Oh god, what do I do?”	No other cars came. Not a soul on that road but us. I clambered to the backseat and peered through the glass.	The red wash of tail lights lit the scene like a horror film.	She was dragging a man’s body into the ditch. Her movements jerky and desperate, like she couldn’t believe what she was doing—but she kept doing it anyway.	Then she stood there, hands over her mouth.	Frozen.	Just… staring.	She came running back to the car and reeked of something sharp and metallic. Her hands were red. Blood.	She fumbled for the green bottle of hand sanitizer in the center console and poured it all over her fingers. She scrubbed and scrubbed like she was trying to erase it. 	Then she drove.	Fast. Crooked. No headlights.	She stopped at a supercenter.	When she came out, she was carrying a small shovel, wrapped in a plastic bag.	Didn’t say a word. Just drove back. Left me in the car and walked into the dark.	I watched from the window as she dug. Not deep. Not careful. Just frantic swipes at the earth.	She dragged him into the shallow grave and covered him with dirt like a secret she didn’t want to remember.	Then she drank what was left in her liquor bottle and drove home, weaving across lanes, muttering things I didn’t understand.	When we got back, she didn’t change. Didn’t shower. Just collapsed face-first on the bed.	Like if she could fall asleep fast enough, it would all go away.	But it didn’t.	Knock. Knock. Knock.	“Wake up, girl!” I barked. “He’s back!”	She rolled over and groaned, “Shut up, you furball,” pushing me off the bed like I was just barking at shadows.	I bit the bedspread and climbed back up. Her breath hit me—stale liquor, regret, and something sour.	Knock. Knock. Knock. 	“There it is again!” I barked. “Get up!”	Daisy had already disappeared beneath the bed. Coward.	And then I smelled it—something rotten, like Daisy forgot how to use her litter box.	But worse.	Something wrong.	Knock. Knock. Knock.	The window trembled. I wanted to look, but my paws wouldn’t move.	This time she sat up—fast.	She was listening now.	Her breath was shallow. Quiet.	She looked toward the window, eyes darting.	Then her eyes widened—huge and glassy, pupils blown.	Her wild red hair puffed up like she’d been struck by lightning.	“What the hell?” she whispered.	The shadow outside swayed. Side to side. Slow.	Too slow.	The problem? We live on the third floor.	There’s no balcony. No fire escape. No ledge.	Nothing should be out there.	She reached toward her nightstand. A whiskey bottle fell, hitting the carpet with a dull thud and rolling under the bed.	She opened the drawer and pulled out the black pistol, holding it to her chest like a teddy bear. 	The bed creaked as she stood. Her big feet pressed into the worn carpet. She didn’t say a word.	Daisy peeked out from beneath the bed skirt, whiskers twitching, then vanished again.	I couldn’t escape. The bedroom door was shut. I was trapped.	We all were.	She walked toward the window, her dollar store nightgown glowing faintly in the moonlight.	I followed, my paws sinking into the carpet as I crept behind her. My nails clicked once. Just once.	Knock. Knock.	She stopped. Inhaled. Held it.	“What could it be?” she whispered, but not to me.	She cocked the pistol. The sound echoed in the silence.	Knock.	I swear I could hear her heartbeat. I could feel it in the air. Even Daisy had gone completely silent beneath the bed.	She lifted the curtain with the gun barrel.	Then slowly—so slowly—pulled the other side open.	She didn’t scream.	She didn’t breathe.	She just… stopped.	Her whole body seized like a statue. 	And then—	She collapsed.	The gun fired as she hit the floor.	BANG.	Blood spread out beneath her, soaking into the carpet. Warm. Sticky. Coppery.	It touched my paws.	She didn’t move.	Her eyes stayed open.	Frozen wide, like she’d seen something too big to fit inside her head.	I don’t know what she saw in that window.	But I saw him.	A shadow where no man should be. The same shape, the face—half-crushed and dirty.	He swayed, just like before.	The man she buried came back.	And he’s still knocking. 	©2024 P.D. Garrett

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Knock, Knock

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Knock, Knock

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Pamela Ruiz

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