Three Knocks (Part One)

Three knocks on the floor beneath Colt’s feet vibrated through him.

At six-foot-five and built of country muscle, Colt was not the type to be shaken. But his heart hammered at this interruption of an evening shave. He set down his razor, wiped the cream off his face, and listened.

King, his strapping Rottweiler, listened as well, his head cocked as he lay on the kitchen floor outside the bathroom door.

It was their first night in the old farmhouse, a purchase Colt couldn’t resist. Built in 1875, it was large and lonely and perfect for a single man who loved working with his hands. A million projects needed doing and he couldn’t wait to—

Three strong, steady knocks—more deliberate than before—bumped the floor beneath Colt’s feet.

Damn.

Someone was in the house.

Within thirty seconds, Colt retrieved his shotgun from the safe in the den. No way any prankster was going to get out of this with clean pants. He’d scare the living piss out of him.

Gun at the ready, Colt made his way to the basement door and flicked on the light.

Crazy thing about old farmhouses is that some are pieced together, each section built decades apart. As such, the basement stairs made a winding creaking path to a lair of memories long dead. The emptiness seeped, its old cinderblock walls dark with moldy wet humidity.

Colt was ready. The little shit was probably hiding in shadows behind one of the many walls that chopped the space into creepy chambers.

He and King made their way from the bottom of the steps to the first bulb in the darkness. King whined when Colt pulled the chain, sending light to all but the farthest corners of the large laundry room.

“It’s alright boy.” Colt raised his voice. “Whoever you are, come out now and I won’t call the cops.”

Silence replied, except—

Colt’s heart thumped when three more knocks—stronger and steadier—vibrated the cement floor beneath his feet.

King panted as if attempting to shed the anxious energy that consumed them.

Fear, thick and unpleasant, was like sludge pumping through Colt’s hot veins.

Then he noticed it.

The previous owners forgot something. On the far wall, a blanket hung over what appeared to be a frame. And because Colt had never been chickenshit, he went over to check it out in spite of his nerves.

King whined but kept close and took a seat at Colt’s feet.

“This is bullshit.” Colt set the gun on the floor, then stood to face his fear. No way a stupid-ass blanket hung on the wall was going to make him run like a girl.

After a deep breath, he raised his hand and sent spiders scurrying as he dropped the blanket to the floor.

A large mirror made of cloudy glass set in an ornate black frame greeted him. The thing was stately and heavy and—

He breathed harder. Faster.

The thing wasn’t right.

No.

Pins and needles pervaded his skin because the reflection…

It wasn’t his.

***

To be continued…