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Speaker 1: I was born in the small white house at the

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bend of Croft Road in Yarrow Crossing, raised under the

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shadow of fir trees thick enough the muffled thunder. Yarrow

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Crossing is a town that doesn't see newcomers. Often fewer

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than three hundred of us, give a take, depending on

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who had a baby or packed up their trailer last winter.

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No major highways lead here, so we're pretty isolated from

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the rest of the world. Everyone here greets everyone, even

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if you don't like them. Parents tell each other whose

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boy is smoking behind the shed again, and which houses

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to avoid on certain days, not because of any scandal,

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but because it's just understood. That's how it is with Sundays.

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We don't talk about Sundays much unless we have to.

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It isn't written in any town charter or hung on

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a plaque in the city hall, but the rule is

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older than any ordinance. You don't answer the door on

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a Sunday, not even a crack, not even if it's

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your mother's voice on the other side. Especially not then.

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We don't bury our dead on Sundays. We don't hold

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weddings or picnics. Church is always on Saturday afternoon. If

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someone shows up to sell you something you'll know. Ever

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i'm out of town. I've heard people call it superstition

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or a folk tale, something meant to scare kids out

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of mischief. But that's just not what it is. My

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grandmother used to call it the hush. Some places of

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winter we have the hush. When I was young, I

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used to play this game with the other kids in

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the school yard. One of us would pretend to be

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the knocker. Three slow taps on a tree trunk, then whispered,

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do you hear it? The other kids would scatter, giggling,

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pretending not to answer. Our teacher at the time, Missus

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Dray never told us to stop, but she'd always make

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sure the game didn't last more than a minute. Let's

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not tempt tradition, she'd say, brushing chalk from a skirt.

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No one ever said what would happen if he broke

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the rule. Missus Delaney, who taught piano out of the

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Blue Bungalow by the Creek, missed the week of lessons,

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then two. When someone finally went a check, the house

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was locked and the curtains were drawn. The Mayor's boy, Charlie,

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used to run barefoot down the middle of Maine with

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a red pin wheel. One Sunday, it was his voice

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that came knocking. His mother said she never opened the door,

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but she moved to the city by Thursday. There are more,

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but no one tells those stories out loud, just glances

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and silence, and so we keep the rule. Tom moved

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into the old cabin on Brush Hill the first week

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of March. He parked his truck nose in to the drive,

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doors open while the engine still idled, pulling boxes from

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the back seat like yet a checklist burned into his skull.

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Everything he did had the floor of a man used

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to wear a uniform. He was lean in the way

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that doesn't fade with age, hard shoulders, tight haircut, eyes,

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always scanning for something, probably out of habit. The cabin

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had been empty for a while. Belonged to Miss Halleran,

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a widow who used to come into town every Thursday

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for a bottle of sherry and a loaf of rye.

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She kept to herself good Tipper didn't drive, so all

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Man Keen used to take her to the doctor appointments

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in Fairbrook one Sunday night. Her porch light stayed on

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through till Monday. By that afternoon, she wasn't answering her phone.

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Folks figures she took a fall, maybe wandered into the woods,

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but no one went to check. By Tuesday, the property

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was quiet. Sheriff pulled a name off the active register

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by the end of the month. That was six years back.

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Tom didn't know any of that, not when he first arrived.

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He told me later he'd found the listing online. Cheap, clean,

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good water pressure, he said, too good to pass up.

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He made the rounds quick, introduced himself of the diner,

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shook hands with folks at the hardware store. Asked if

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we got good cell service out here, if the winters

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were as bad as he suspected they were. Said he

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was retired Army logistics, mostly two deployments. He smiled easily,

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said he was tired of traffic and the city in general.

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Wanted to fish, grow tomatoes, breathe air that didn't taste

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like break dust. People liked him or wanted to We're

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not cold here, just cautious, he waved to me from

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across the street. On his second day sat beside me

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at the bar, and his third on the fifth, he'd

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asked me what the church hours were, and I told

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him Saturdays at four. He paused, then smiled again, said

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that was funny because every church he'd ever seen held

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service on Sunday. I told him ours used to. Then

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it didn't, he laughed, Well, hell, maybe I'll start my own.

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He said it like a joke, but I heard the

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way behind it. Some people have that kind of pride,

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the kind of gets tangled up with the need to

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fix what isn't theirs to A few of us tried

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to explain, not forcefully, just as a kindness. We told

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him we don't open our doors on Sundays. That it

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wasn't about religion or danger, just something deeper, older, a

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groove in the bones of this place. He listened, smiled

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through it, nodded the way polite people do when they

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think you're insane. At the diner the following morning, he

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leaned over the counter and asked error if she thought

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we were all in on some prank. She just refilled

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his coffee and said I'd rest on Sundays if I

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were you. He thanked her and stirred two sugars, already

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pushing it to the back of his mind. But I

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could see it setting in there's a look new people

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get when the laughter stops, when the charm runs out

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and the silence of yarrow crossings seeps through the windows.

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On the Sundays, you can lock out your window and

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not hear a single bird. It gets under the skin

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makes a person start checking the corners of their windows.

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Tom started walking his dog. Lass switched from boots to

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sneakers or a sidearm on his hip, then switched to

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a concealed holster. Said it was for bears, but we

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didn't even have those. I saw him again that Friday,

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down by the hardware store. He bought sandpaper and a

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peep hole. Kit said he was doing small upgrades. I

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asked if he was settling in all right, Yeah, he said,

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then paused, Hey, you ever hear anything on Sundays middle

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of the night. Sounded like knocking. He tried to laugh,

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but it didn't stick. I just nodded, said get your

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errands done by Saturday and you won't have to worry

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about those, and left it had that Tom's porch light

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stayed off that Sunday night. I checked twice from my window.

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He said he'd stay inside just to play along. Made

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it sound like a joke, but there was a crease

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in his forehead when he said it, that same subtle

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tension you see people try not to admit they're nervous.

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The days passed the way Sundays always do. Here. The

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town slowed to its crawl, the air pressed in, thicker

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than usual. By late afternoon. It was that hollow stillness.

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No birds, no cars, no wind through the trees, only

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the creak of porch steps settling, and the occasional whisper

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of pine needles brushing one another far out in the woods.

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I sat by the window most of the night. That's

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what I do now, out of habit book in hand,

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though I never make it past the few pages, eyes

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always drifting to the trees, to the road, to the

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edge of the quiet. I didn't hear anything strange that night,

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but I never do any more. After enough years, the

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Sunday silence becomes part of the routine. You stopped listening

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for what might be hiding in it. The next morning,

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Tom invited me over for coffee. I could tell by

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the way he stood on the porch, mug already in hand,

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dog at his side, eyes scanning the tree line that

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he hadn't slept well, come sit a while, he said,

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I want to ask you something. He poured strong black

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coffee into a chipped enamel cup and handed it to me.

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I took the seat opposite his on the small porch table.

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The wood still damp from last night's dew, so he started,

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eyes on the mug, not me. Did you really not

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hear anything last night? Real late? What kind of thing knocking?

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He said, not loud, just spaced out three at a time,

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always three. I looked at him for a long second

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before answering, you didn't imagine it. He blinked, So that's real. Then.

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Some folks say it starts the first week you move in.

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Some say it starts once you know to expect it.

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He let out a short breath. Not relief, more the opposite.

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He went on for over an hour, no pattern I

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could see, Always three knocks. Waited a few minutes, then again.

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He scratched at his jaw, eyes still distant. Wasn't wind,

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wasn't creaking? I know what those sound like. I nodded,

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took a sip of the coffee. It was too bitter,

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but I didn't mention it. You didn't answer, though, I said.

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He shook his head. No. I thought about it. Had

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my hand on the knob a few times, just to

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open it a crack, see if someone was messing around.

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But the dog. He glanced down at the shepherd by

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his chair. She wouldn't go near it, just laid under

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the table and whined. First time I'd ever seen her scared.

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I watched the dog. It look fine now, alert, resting

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its head on its paws, ears flicking with every soft

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noise from the brush. She still won't walk past the

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front door. Tom said, I had to carry her to

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the truck this morning. He tried to smile, but his

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eyes were sunken, darker than usual. That week, he brought

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it up three more times, once at the diner, twice

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outside the post office, always framed as a story with

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a small laugh tugged into the end, but each time

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it felt thinner, more cracked at the edges. I probably

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imagined it, He'd say, must have been a branch or something, right.

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No one answered. By the next Sunday rolled around, Tom's

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cheerful indifference had started to erode. He stopped to me

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at the corner store on Saturday afternoon. Sun was still

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up wind, tugging at the old flags, strung across the overhang.

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He looked rough, not just tired, but wary, thinned out

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behind the eyes, and no amount of sleep could fix that. Hey,

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he said, voice lower than usual. You got a minute.

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I want to talk to you again. We stepped off

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to the side near the vending machine. The wind had

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scattered gum wrappers across the sidewalk. He waited until no

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one else was close enough to hear. I saw some

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one last Sunday, he said through the peep hole. I

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said nothing, just kept my eyes on him, waiting. He

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rubbed the back of his neck. I mean it was

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in a shadow. It wasn't a trick of the light.

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Some one was there, standing right at the door. I

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finally asked. Did they knock here? He said three times,

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same as before, but this time I looked. He hesitated,

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then added, I couldn't make out their face. There was

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something wrong with the way they were standing. I know

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the sounds dumb, but they weren't just standing still. They

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weren't moving right, sort of held in place. I tried

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not to show anything, just nodded. Tom leaned in slightly.

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His voice hushed, You ever think this whole thing is

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just a small town ritual to scare outsiders, a test

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or something, no, I said. His eyes searched mine for

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a moment, as if he expected more. When I didn't

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offer it, he stepped back, nodding slowly. Right, of course.

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He didn't say much after that. We barted ways outside

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the store. He didn't ask me to come by that evening.

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I didn't see his lights go off that night. Normally

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the cabins up on Brush Hill fade one by one

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as the town settles into Sunday night. His stayed lit

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porchlike kitchen light bedroom. Every bulb in the place left

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glowing well past midnight. I imagined him walking between them,

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checking locks, pulling back curtains, peering out from behind blinds.

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Had something he wasn't ready to admit he saw. The

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next day, he stopped by my place early. I didn't sleep,

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he said, plainly. Every time I blinked, I thought I'd

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hear it again. He tapped the rim of his mug

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with his thumb. What is this some kind of hazing?

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Did someone follow me up there? No one followed you,

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I said, he exhaled. Then, why why the knocking? Why

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is this happening? I didn't answer that either, not because

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I didn't want to. There just wasn't an answer that

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would have helped. Instead, I told him, it's not a prank,

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it's not a test, it's not hazing. Just don't open

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the door. That quieted him. His shoulders shifted, jaw tightening.

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He nodded once sharply, then looked past me toward the trees.

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After a long silence, he said, I'd onn like being

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told what to do in my own home. There was

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no heat in what he had said. He clearly wasn't

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accusing me of anything, and he sure as hell wasn't

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threatening me. I didn't respond. He left soon after that week.

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He kept to himself, drove into town less. His dog

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stopped barking entirely, just sat by the front window, unmoving,

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like it was listening for something too quiet for human ears.

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I knew what was coming. Everyone in town did. We'd

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seen it before. Some people just can't stand the idea

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of fear with no form. They'd rather walk straight into

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it than keep living beside it. And the more you

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think about it, the more I knocks. Tom was nearing

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that hedge now. I could feel it in the way

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he held himself, and how often his eyes drifted to

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the hills, to the silence tuck just past the tree line.

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Something in him had changed, and Sunday was coming again.

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The service that weekend was quiet. The pews were full,

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but the church was quieter than it had been in

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a long time. Conversations were half whispers. Nobody's smile was

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sincere enough to be wide. You could tell something was

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brewing under the surface. We all felt it. Tom sat

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in the back row, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead.

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He didn't sing, didn't pray, just sat there with a

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jaw so tense you could see it from across the aisle.

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The pastor, Old Turner didn't mention him by name, but

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we all heard it in his sermon. The Lord gives

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us rules for a reason, he said, and sometimes it's

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not ours to understand. Faith without explanation is the hardest kind,

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the most necessary. Tom stood up before the final hymn

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walked out without a word. That night, I sat on

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my porch with the thermas of tea. The breeze was

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light but steady. Dry leaves skittered across the wood planks,

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brushing past my boots without a sound. From where I sat,

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I could see brush hill in the distance. His cabin

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wasn't close enough to see detail, but the glow of

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his living room window cast a low amber hue into

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the dark. It stayed on for hours, then at eleven

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o three it flicked off. I tightened my coat, pulled

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my collar higher, and went inside. The night stretched on.

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At three eleven I heard it. Three knocks, not loud

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but deep, heavy in a way that wasn't physical. They

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seemed to roll through the trees, distant but deliberate. I

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held my breath. Another three spaced exactly the same, and

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then nothing. The wind died with the sound, the tree

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stopped rustling, the insects fell silent, The whole town seemed

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to pause. I sat there for a long time, unmoving,

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not because I was scared. Fear fades after the first

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few years. It doesn't go away, but it turns into

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something else, a kind of resignation. Maybe this wasn't my

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first time hearing it wasn't even my tenth. I think

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talking to Tom about it so much as made me

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think about it too much, made me manifest it. But

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that night the stillness was different. It felt pointed. I

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kept my porch light on, but didn't move from my chair,

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didn't glance toward my own door. After about twelve minutes,

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the wind returned, a few leaves rustled past the steps,

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the night went back to normal, But I didn't move

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my eyes on the hill the whole time, on that

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distant patch of forest that swallowed Tom's little cabin. And

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as I sat there, watching the dark, I wondered what

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choices were being made behind his walls. Wondered if he

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was curled up in bed, holding his breath beneath the sheets,

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or if he was pacing the hall, fists clenched, rehearsing

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some final act of defiance against the rule he never

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believed in. I pictured him standing at the door, one

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hand on the knob, waiting for the knock to come.

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I didn't hear a scream. There never is one. Whatever happens,

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it does not need noise. The stillness was enough, and

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the quiet, steady dread that Sunday might have finally claimed another.

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I gave it until mid morning. Part of me hoped

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I see Tom in town, maybe parked outside the diner,

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or picking up dog food at the supply store, acting

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tired but sheepish, like someone who had gone through a

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long night of nothing, and knew he'd been wrong about everything,

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but I didn't see him. By ten, I was heading

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up the ridge trail, a thin layer of leaves crunching

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beneath my boots. The air was dry, but heavy in

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a way that made my ears ring. Brush hill sat still,

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as ever, the trees lining it in silent ranks, leaves

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barely clinging to their branches. Tom's truck was still in

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the drive, parked straight, enging cold. I stood at the

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edge of the path for a moment, just staring at

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the cabin. There was no movement, no smoke from the chimney.

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The curtains had been pulled half way open. I knocked

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gently on the door frame, making sure to avoid doing

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it three times. Tom no answer. The door wasn't latched.

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It hung open a few inches. I pushed it with

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my finger tips it creaked wide. Inside. The air was stale,

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cold enough to see my breath. In the shade of

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the living room, there was a cup on the table,

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half full. The faint smell of coffee drifted toward me,

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cut with something sour, old sweat or fear left too

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long in the fibers of the room. His coat was

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missing from the hook. His shoes were gone from the mat,

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but his wallet sat on the counter keys beside it.

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The lights were off, but the brake hadn't tripped. I

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checked anyway. It was as if he'd gone for a

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walk or a sprint and hadn't come back. I found

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the dog under the bed. She was trembling, nose tugged

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to her stomach, silent as dust. When I knelt down

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to coax her out, she only blinked, too scared to bark,

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too scared to do anything but shake. The final thing

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I noticed, because it wasn't there at first, was the

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mark on the door frame. Three long smears, blackened at

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the edge, faint ridges of pressure where the wood had

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been touched hard enough to leave an impression. The residue

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crumbled slightly when I leaned closer, like ash clinging to

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the shape of fingers. I stood still for a long time.

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When I left, I closed the door. I took the

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dog with me. She did not resist. A month passed.

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Tom never turned up. His name wasn't even added to

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a grave, just slipped quietly into the absence. We all

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knew too well. The council posted a notice cabin on

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brush Hill, vacant, same phrasing every time, never said why,

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folks don't ask, not directly. But that week church was

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full again, and nobody left early. I woke the perimeter

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every Monday after that habit. I guess I don't know what.

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I was hoping to see, footprints, movement, maybe the edge

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of something that could explain what weights out there beyond

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the door. One evening, just before dusk, I paused near

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the cabin. The front step had leaves gathered in the corner,

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wind blown, untouched. The lock had been changed, but the

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door still hung crooked. The frame still bore that faint

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scorched dent, three uneven points pressed in a line, almost

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like shy fingers leaving a mark. The forest was quiet

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behind me, even the birds held their breath. Then faintly

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I heard it, knock, knock, knock, coming from inside. I

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stood there until the sun dipped behind the trees, my

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hands in my coat, pockets, heart thudding soft against my ribs.

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Didn't go in, didn't get closer, just turned, walked back

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to town and didn't tell as Aul. Back at home,

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I opened the leather bound journal i'd started the year

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I turned twenty. I added Tom's name to the back.

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There's a list, you see. It is an official It

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isn't public, but I keep it anyway. He was warned

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kind men, but stubborn. If someone else moves in, I'll

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tell them too. Doesn't mean they'll listen, I wrote in.

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Some stories don't need chapters, just names. And some lessons

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in this town are only learned on Sundays.