Comhroinn Fuaime

It started with a knock at 3:07 a.m. Not a loud one. Just… three taps on the front door. Slow. Controlled. Like whoever was outside already knew you were awake. Evan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, telling himself it was nothing. Pipes. Wind. The house settling. Then it came again. Three taps. He lived alone. The porch light switch was right by the hallway, but his legs didn’t move at first. Something about the rhythm felt wrong—too intentional, like it was testing him. Then silence.