Speaker 1: I was born in the small white house at the
bend of Croft Road in Yarrow Crossing, raised under the
shadow of fir trees thick enough the muffled thunder. Yarrow
Crossing is a town that doesn't see newcomers. Often fewer
than three hundred of us, give a take, depending on
who had a baby or packed up their trailer last winter.
No major highways lead here, so we're pretty isolated from
the rest of the world. Everyone here greets everyone, even
if you don't like them. Parents tell each other whose
boy is smoking behind the shed again, and which houses
to avoid on certain days, not because of any scandal,
but because it's just understood. That's how it is with Sundays.
We don't talk about Sundays much unless we have to.
It isn't written in any town charter or hung on
a plaque in the city hall, but the rule is
older than any ordinance. You don't answer the door on
a Sunday, not even a crack, not even if it's
your mother's voice on the other side. Especially not then.
We don't bury our dead on Sundays. We don't hold
weddings or picnics. Church is always on Saturday afternoon. If
someone shows up to sell you something you'll know. Ever
i'm out of town. I've heard people call it superstition
or a folk tale, something meant to scare kids out
of mischief. But that's just not what it is. My
grandmother used to call it the hush. Some places of
winter we have the hush. When I was young, I
used to play this game with the other kids in
the school yard. One of us would pretend to be
the knocker. Three slow taps on a tree trunk, then whispered,
do you hear it? The other kids would scatter, giggling,
pretending not to answer. Our teacher at the time, Missus
Dray never told us to stop, but she'd always make
sure the game didn't last more than a minute. Let's
not tempt tradition, she'd say, brushing chalk from a skirt.
No one ever said what would happen if he broke
the rule. Missus Delaney, who taught piano out of the
Blue Bungalow by the Creek, missed the week of lessons,
then two. When someone finally went a check, the house
was locked and the curtains were drawn. The Mayor's boy, Charlie,
used to run barefoot down the middle of Maine with
a red pin wheel. One Sunday, it was his voice
that came knocking. His mother said she never opened the door,
but she moved to the city by Thursday. There are more,
but no one tells those stories out loud, just glances
and silence, and so we keep the rule. Tom moved
into the old cabin on Brush Hill the first week
of March. He parked his truck nose in to the drive,
doors open while the engine still idled, pulling boxes from
the back seat like yet a checklist burned into his skull.
Everything he did had the floor of a man used
to wear a uniform. He was lean in the way
that doesn't fade with age, hard shoulders, tight haircut, eyes,
always scanning for something, probably out of habit. The cabin
had been empty for a while. Belonged to Miss Halleran,
a widow who used to come into town every Thursday
for a bottle of sherry and a loaf of rye.
She kept to herself good Tipper didn't drive, so all
Man Keen used to take her to the doctor appointments
in Fairbrook one Sunday night. Her porch light stayed on
through till Monday. By that afternoon, she wasn't answering her phone.
Folks figures she took a fall, maybe wandered into the woods,
but no one went to check. By Tuesday, the property
was quiet. Sheriff pulled a name off the active register
by the end of the month. That was six years back.
Tom didn't know any of that, not when he first arrived.
He told me later he'd found the listing online. Cheap, clean,
good water pressure, he said, too good to pass up.
He made the rounds quick, introduced himself of the diner,
shook hands with folks at the hardware store. Asked if
we got good cell service out here, if the winters
were as bad as he suspected they were. Said he
was retired Army logistics, mostly two deployments. He smiled easily,
said he was tired of traffic and the city in general.
Wanted to fish, grow tomatoes, breathe air that didn't taste
like break dust. People liked him or wanted to We're
not cold here, just cautious, he waved to me from
across the street. On his second day sat beside me
at the bar, and his third on the fifth, he'd
asked me what the church hours were, and I told
him Saturdays at four. He paused, then smiled again, said
that was funny because every church he'd ever seen held
service on Sunday. I told him ours used to. Then
it didn't, he laughed, Well, hell, maybe I'll start my own.
He said it like a joke, but I heard the
way behind it. Some people have that kind of pride,
the kind of gets tangled up with the need to
fix what isn't theirs to A few of us tried
to explain, not forcefully, just as a kindness. We told
him we don't open our doors on Sundays. That it
wasn't about religion or danger, just something deeper, older, a
groove in the bones of this place. He listened, smiled
through it, nodded the way polite people do when they
think you're insane. At the diner the following morning, he
leaned over the counter and asked error if she thought
we were all in on some prank. She just refilled
his coffee and said I'd rest on Sundays if I
were you. He thanked her and stirred two sugars, already
pushing it to the back of his mind. But I
could see it setting in there's a look new people
get when the laughter stops, when the charm runs out
and the silence of yarrow crossings seeps through the windows.
On the Sundays, you can lock out your window and
not hear a single bird. It gets under the skin
makes a person start checking the corners of their windows.
Tom started walking his dog. Lass switched from boots to
sneakers or a sidearm on his hip, then switched to
a concealed holster. Said it was for bears, but we
didn't even have those. I saw him again that Friday,
down by the hardware store. He bought sandpaper and a
peep hole. Kit said he was doing small upgrades. I
asked if he was settling in all right, Yeah, he said,
then paused, Hey, you ever hear anything on Sundays middle
of the night. Sounded like knocking. He tried to laugh,
but it didn't stick. I just nodded, said get your
errands done by Saturday and you won't have to worry
about those, and left it had that Tom's porch light
stayed off that Sunday night. I checked twice from my window.
He said he'd stay inside just to play along. Made
it sound like a joke, but there was a crease
in his forehead when he said it, that same subtle
tension you see people try not to admit they're nervous.
The days passed the way Sundays always do. Here. The
town slowed to its crawl, the air pressed in, thicker
than usual. By late afternoon. It was that hollow stillness.
No birds, no cars, no wind through the trees, only
the creak of porch steps settling, and the occasional whisper
of pine needles brushing one another far out in the woods.
I sat by the window most of the night. That's
what I do now, out of habit book in hand,
though I never make it past the few pages, eyes
always drifting to the trees, to the road, to the
edge of the quiet. I didn't hear anything strange that night,
but I never do any more. After enough years, the
Sunday silence becomes part of the routine. You stopped listening
for what might be hiding in it. The next morning,
Tom invited me over for coffee. I could tell by
the way he stood on the porch, mug already in hand,
dog at his side, eyes scanning the tree line that
he hadn't slept well, come sit a while, he said,
I want to ask you something. He poured strong black
coffee into a chipped enamel cup and handed it to me.
I took the seat opposite his on the small porch table.
The wood still damp from last night's dew, so he started,
eyes on the mug, not me. Did you really not
hear anything last night? Real late? What kind of thing knocking?
He said, not loud, just spaced out three at a time,
always three. I looked at him for a long second
before answering, you didn't imagine it. He blinked, So that's real. Then.
Some folks say it starts the first week you move in.
Some say it starts once you know to expect it.
He let out a short breath. Not relief, more the opposite.
He went on for over an hour, no pattern I
could see, Always three knocks. Waited a few minutes, then again.
He scratched at his jaw, eyes still distant. Wasn't wind,
wasn't creaking? I know what those sound like. I nodded,
took a sip of the coffee. It was too bitter,
but I didn't mention it. You didn't answer, though, I said.
He shook his head. No. I thought about it. Had
my hand on the knob a few times, just to
open it a crack, see if someone was messing around.
But the dog. He glanced down at the shepherd by
his chair. She wouldn't go near it, just laid under
the table and whined. First time I'd ever seen her scared.
I watched the dog. It look fine now, alert, resting
its head on its paws, ears flicking with every soft
noise from the brush. She still won't walk past the
front door. Tom said, I had to carry her to
the truck this morning. He tried to smile, but his
eyes were sunken, darker than usual. That week, he brought
it up three more times, once at the diner, twice
outside the post office, always framed as a story with
a small laugh tugged into the end, but each time
it felt thinner, more cracked at the edges. I probably
imagined it, He'd say, must have been a branch or something, right.
No one answered. By the next Sunday rolled around, Tom's
cheerful indifference had started to erode. He stopped to me
at the corner store on Saturday afternoon. Sun was still
up wind, tugging at the old flags, strung across the overhang.
He looked rough, not just tired, but wary, thinned out
behind the eyes, and no amount of sleep could fix that. Hey,
he said, voice lower than usual. You got a minute.
I want to talk to you again. We stepped off
to the side near the vending machine. The wind had
scattered gum wrappers across the sidewalk. He waited until no
one else was close enough to hear. I saw some
one last Sunday, he said through the peep hole. I
said nothing, just kept my eyes on him, waiting. He
rubbed the back of his neck. I mean it was
in a shadow. It wasn't a trick of the light.
Some one was there, standing right at the door. I
finally asked. Did they knock here? He said three times,
same as before, but this time I looked. He hesitated,
then added, I couldn't make out their face. There was
something wrong with the way they were standing. I know
the sounds dumb, but they weren't just standing still. They
weren't moving right, sort of held in place. I tried
not to show anything, just nodded. Tom leaned in slightly.
His voice hushed, You ever think this whole thing is
just a small town ritual to scare outsiders, a test
or something, no, I said. His eyes searched mine for
a moment, as if he expected more. When I didn't
offer it, he stepped back, nodding slowly. Right, of course.
He didn't say much after that. We barted ways outside
the store. He didn't ask me to come by that evening.
I didn't see his lights go off that night. Normally
the cabins up on Brush Hill fade one by one
as the town settles into Sunday night. His stayed lit
porchlike kitchen light bedroom. Every bulb in the place left
glowing well past midnight. I imagined him walking between them,
checking locks, pulling back curtains, peering out from behind blinds.
Had something he wasn't ready to admit he saw. The
next day, he stopped by my place early. I didn't sleep,
he said, plainly. Every time I blinked, I thought I'd
hear it again. He tapped the rim of his mug
with his thumb. What is this some kind of hazing?
Did someone follow me up there? No one followed you,
I said, he exhaled. Then, why why the knocking? Why
is this happening? I didn't answer that either, not because
I didn't want to. There just wasn't an answer that
would have helped. Instead, I told him, it's not a prank,
it's not a test, it's not hazing. Just don't open
the door. That quieted him. His shoulders shifted, jaw tightening.
He nodded once sharply, then looked past me toward the trees.
After a long silence, he said, I'd onn like being
told what to do in my own home. There was
no heat in what he had said. He clearly wasn't
accusing me of anything, and he sure as hell wasn't
threatening me. I didn't respond. He left soon after that week.
He kept to himself, drove into town less. His dog
stopped barking entirely, just sat by the front window, unmoving,
like it was listening for something too quiet for human ears.
I knew what was coming. Everyone in town did. We'd
seen it before. Some people just can't stand the idea
of fear with no form. They'd rather walk straight into
it than keep living beside it. And the more you
think about it, the more I knocks. Tom was nearing
that hedge now. I could feel it in the way
he held himself, and how often his eyes drifted to
the hills, to the silence tuck just past the tree line.
Something in him had changed, and Sunday was coming again.
The service that weekend was quiet. The pews were full,
but the church was quieter than it had been in
a long time. Conversations were half whispers. Nobody's smile was
sincere enough to be wide. You could tell something was
brewing under the surface. We all felt it. Tom sat
in the back row, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead.
He didn't sing, didn't pray, just sat there with a
jaw so tense you could see it from across the aisle.
The pastor, Old Turner didn't mention him by name, but
we all heard it in his sermon. The Lord gives
us rules for a reason, he said, and sometimes it's
not ours to understand. Faith without explanation is the hardest kind,
the most necessary. Tom stood up before the final hymn
walked out without a word. That night, I sat on
my porch with the thermas of tea. The breeze was
light but steady. Dry leaves skittered across the wood planks,
brushing past my boots without a sound. From where I sat,
I could see brush hill in the distance. His cabin
wasn't close enough to see detail, but the glow of
his living room window cast a low amber hue into
the dark. It stayed on for hours, then at eleven
o three it flicked off. I tightened my coat, pulled
my collar higher, and went inside. The night stretched on.
At three eleven I heard it. Three knocks, not loud
but deep, heavy in a way that wasn't physical. They
seemed to roll through the trees, distant but deliberate. I
held my breath. Another three spaced exactly the same, and
then nothing. The wind died with the sound, the tree
stopped rustling, the insects fell silent, The whole town seemed
to pause. I sat there for a long time, unmoving,
not because I was scared. Fear fades after the first
few years. It doesn't go away, but it turns into
something else, a kind of resignation. Maybe this wasn't my
first time hearing it wasn't even my tenth. I think
talking to Tom about it so much as made me
think about it too much, made me manifest it. But
that night the stillness was different. It felt pointed. I
kept my porch light on, but didn't move from my chair,
didn't glance toward my own door. After about twelve minutes,
the wind returned, a few leaves rustled past the steps,
the night went back to normal, But I didn't move
my eyes on the hill the whole time, on that
distant patch of forest that swallowed Tom's little cabin. And
as I sat there, watching the dark, I wondered what
choices were being made behind his walls. Wondered if he
was curled up in bed, holding his breath beneath the sheets,
or if he was pacing the hall, fists clenched, rehearsing
some final act of defiance against the rule he never
believed in. I pictured him standing at the door, one
hand on the knob, waiting for the knock to come.
I didn't hear a scream. There never is one. Whatever happens,
it does not need noise. The stillness was enough, and
the quiet, steady dread that Sunday might have finally claimed another.
I gave it until mid morning. Part of me hoped
I see Tom in town, maybe parked outside the diner,
or picking up dog food at the supply store, acting
tired but sheepish, like someone who had gone through a
long night of nothing, and knew he'd been wrong about everything,
but I didn't see him. By ten, I was heading
up the ridge trail, a thin layer of leaves crunching
beneath my boots. The air was dry, but heavy in
a way that made my ears ring. Brush hill sat still,
as ever, the trees lining it in silent ranks, leaves
barely clinging to their branches. Tom's truck was still in
the drive, parked straight, enging cold. I stood at the
edge of the path for a moment, just staring at
the cabin. There was no movement, no smoke from the chimney.
The curtains had been pulled half way open. I knocked
gently on the door frame, making sure to avoid doing
it three times. Tom no answer. The door wasn't latched.
It hung open a few inches. I pushed it with
my finger tips it creaked wide. Inside. The air was stale,
cold enough to see my breath. In the shade of
the living room, there was a cup on the table,
half full. The faint smell of coffee drifted toward me,
cut with something sour, old sweat or fear left too
long in the fibers of the room. His coat was
missing from the hook. His shoes were gone from the mat,
but his wallet sat on the counter keys beside it.
The lights were off, but the brake hadn't tripped. I
checked anyway. It was as if he'd gone for a
walk or a sprint and hadn't come back. I found
the dog under the bed. She was trembling, nose tugged
to her stomach, silent as dust. When I knelt down
to coax her out, she only blinked, too scared to bark,
too scared to do anything but shake. The final thing
I noticed, because it wasn't there at first, was the
mark on the door frame. Three long smears, blackened at
the edge, faint ridges of pressure where the wood had
been touched hard enough to leave an impression. The residue
crumbled slightly when I leaned closer, like ash clinging to
the shape of fingers. I stood still for a long time.
When I left, I closed the door. I took the
dog with me. She did not resist. A month passed.
Tom never turned up. His name wasn't even added to
a grave, just slipped quietly into the absence. We all
knew too well. The council posted a notice cabin on
brush Hill, vacant, same phrasing every time, never said why,
folks don't ask, not directly. But that week church was
full again, and nobody left early. I woke the perimeter
every Monday after that habit. I guess I don't know what.
I was hoping to see, footprints, movement, maybe the edge
of something that could explain what weights out there beyond
the door. One evening, just before dusk, I paused near
the cabin. The front step had leaves gathered in the corner,
wind blown, untouched. The lock had been changed, but the
door still hung crooked. The frame still bore that faint
scorched dent, three uneven points pressed in a line, almost
like shy fingers leaving a mark. The forest was quiet
behind me, even the birds held their breath. Then faintly
I heard it, knock, knock, knock, coming from inside. I
stood there until the sun dipped behind the trees, my
hands in my coat, pockets, heart thudding soft against my ribs.
Didn't go in, didn't get closer, just turned, walked back
to town and didn't tell as Aul. Back at home,
I opened the leather bound journal i'd started the year
I turned twenty. I added Tom's name to the back.
There's a list, you see. It is an official It
isn't public, but I keep it anyway. He was warned
kind men, but stubborn. If someone else moves in, I'll
tell them too. Doesn't mean they'll listen, I wrote in.
Some stories don't need chapters, just names. And some lessons
in this town are only learned on Sundays.