People say danger announces itself with noise, but the night she knocked on my door, everything was quiet enough to hear my own breath.
I lived in a small town outside Nagpur in 2019. My parents were away for a week visiting my uncle, so I stayed home alone to prepare for exams. Our house sat near the end of a long lane with trees that leaned over the walls. At night, the whole street felt empty, like everyone had stepped out of the world for a moment.
It was close to ten when I heard the knock.
Soft at first. Almost gentle.
I froze with my pen still in my hand. Nobody should’ve been out there. Our neighbours always called before visiting, and the delivery guys didn’t work that late.
Another knock came. A little harder.
I walked to the door, but I didn’t open it. I just listened. The air felt heavy, like the house was holding its breath with me.
A woman’s voice drifted through the wood. “Hello? I’m lost… please help me.”
Her voice trembled just enough to sound real, but something about it made my stomach twist. I looked through the peephole.
She stood under the yellow streetlamp, a thin woman in a pale dupatta that fluttered in the warm breeze. Her head was slightly tilted down, like she was trying to hide her face. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as if checking if someone watched her.
“Please,” she said again. “I don’t know this area. Can I come inside and use your phone?”
My hand tightened around the doorknob. Even through the door I could smell the night outside—dust, warm air, the faint scent of jasmine from our neighbour’s plant. Everything familiar. Everything normal.
But she didn’t fit into that quiet picture.
“We don’t have a landline,” I said. My voice came out thin and shaky. “I can call someone for you instead.”
She didn’t move. “No… no. It’s okay. Just let me inside. I only need a minute.”
Her tone changed slightly—not forceful, but sharper. Like she wasn’t asking anymore.
I stepped back from the door.
“Please,” she said again. “Just open the door.”
I didn’t answer. I walked away, pretending she couldn’t hear the fear in my steps. I picked up my phone and dialed my neighbour, Mr. Sharma, but he didn’t pick up. He slept early. Almost everyone on the lane did.
The knocks stopped. I thought she had left.
But then something scraped lightly against the side gate.
My body tensed. I moved to the back window and lifted the curtain just a little.
She was there.
Standing at the gate. Staring directly at the window I stood behind, like she had known where I’d be. Her dupatta was pulled tighter around her shoulders now, and I could see her face more clearly. Her eyes were wide and fixed, not scared like she claimed—more like she was studying me.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears. I ducked away from the window. I didn’t want her to know I was watching.
A soft tapping came next. Not from the front door. From the kitchen window.
She was circling the house.
Every light in the kitchen was off, so I could see her faint outline only when she moved in front of the streetlamp. Her fingers touched the glass, sliding down slowly. I heard her whisper, too faint to understand.
I backed into the hallway and locked my bedroom door. My hands shook so hard I could barely pull the bolt into place.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. The tapping stopped. Everything grew still.
I sat on the floor beside my bed, phone in my hand, trying my parents, trying neighbours, trying anyone. No one answered.
Then I heard something new.
A soft rustle from the living room window. Like someone brushing against the curtains.
I forced myself to stand. I stepped closer to the bedroom door and put my ear against it. The house sounded quiet, but not empty. I could feel someone on the other side, the same way you feel a storm in the air before it breaks.
I didn’t dare peek this time. I didn’t want to see her face again.
Instead, I whispered into the phone to the local police number. My voice trembled as I told them someone was trying to get inside.
They told me to stay where I was. They would send a patrol car.
The next ten minutes stretched like an hour. Every shadow felt alive. Every small creak made me hold my breath.
When the siren finally echoed down the lane, I almost cried from relief.
Blue lights swept across the house. I heard the police calling out. I unlocked my door and stepped into the hallway.
The officers checked outside first. When they came in, one of them asked, “Did she come inside?”
I shook my head.
They found footprints near the gate and near the kitchen window. They followed them down the lane, but they ended near the crossroads, where a motorcycle had stopped recently. The tyre marks were fresh.
One officer told me something that made me shiver.
Similar reports had come in that month. A woman knocking on houses late at night, asking to come in, saying she was lost or scared. People who let her inside had their things stolen. One elderly couple woke up to find her standing near their bedroom door, pretending she had gotten confused in the dark. She always left before the police arrived. No one knew her name.
They didn’t catch her that night either.
The officers stayed until I calmed down. They told me to lock every window and call again if anything felt off. When they left, the street returned to silence.
Later, when I finally tried to sleep, I kept thinking about the moment I saw her looking straight at me through the gate. She hadn’t looked lost. She had looked patient. Like she was used to waiting for doors to open.
I moved my bed away from the window after that night. I started checking the locks twice, sometimes three times.
And even now, when I study late, I pause at every knock I hear outside—even the harmless ones—because I can still picture her eyes under that yellow streetlamp.
Wide. Still. And not lost at all.
