I’m Marty. I have been living in Portland Michigan for the past 7 years. I live at Goodwin Road. A quiet little stretch not far from the edge of town. Ain't much, but it's mine. A little house, with a big porch, and enough yard for my dog, Brownie, to run laps in the evenings. I work at the factory up the road and I don't burn much gas and most days are a blur of machines and routine.
But one night last fall, one night changed me and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
It was my night out. Brownie and I were curled up in the living room, watching the blue shadows of the television flicker across the walls. It was just about midnight, and I was dozing in my chair when I heard it. A loud, hard rap on the front door. The sound shattered the silence like a hammer smashing glass. Hackles raised, Brownie jumped up barking. A shiver went down my spine.
Who is knocking at midnight? Nobody ever came that late. Not out here. My nearest neighbor lived half a mile down the road, and only came to visit if his tractor broke down. The knocking came again, louder this time, insistent, angry.
I got up and peered through the peephole, my heart pounding. Nadda. - Dark empty porch and the yard beyond, swallowed by night. Brownie barked and barked, circling the door, his nose to the crack. Against my better judgement I opened the door and looked out into the inky blackness. There was nothing. No wind thrashing the grass, no sound of feet on the porch, no car in the driveway.
I shut the door, locked it twice, and tried to laugh it off. Maybe a branch had struck the siding, or a raccoon had been rummaging. Brownie was sitting at my feet, tense, ears cocked towards the door.
I was home late the next night, working second shift at the factory. I got in around eleven, took a hot shower and curled back into my chair with Brownie beside me. The house was quiet, except for the low drone of the TV.
Then the rapping started again.
But this time it didn't surrender. Louder, faster, as though whoever was out there was dying to get in. Brownie barked, nails clicking on the hardwood, as she raced to the door. Fear crawled on my skin. Slowly, I rose and grabbed my flashlight off the nightstand and moved to the door.
I hesitated a moment and then flung the door wide.
At the end of the porch was a man. Or whatever was left of it. He crawled out of the driveway, down the road, blood all over himself, his clothes ripped and filthy. But it was his face that froze me: the lower half gone, a ragged, gaping wound in place of his jaw. His eyes were wide and wild, staring at me with a desperate, pleading intensity, and I couldn't move. Brownie barked louder, her body leaning against my leg.
A bloody hand was stuck out. The man's fingers clawed empty air. In a flash he was gone--gone as if he had never been there.
I reeled backwards and panted. Brownie barked and barked, looking out into the empty yard. It was a nightmare, a trick of the light, I told myself, but the fear in my chest would not go away.
And then something inside me broke. I needed to know what was happening. I grabbed Brownie's leash, pulled on my boots, and stepped out into the night, a flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Brownie was first, nose down, her body taut and quivering.
We drove down Goodwin Road and the darkness closed in around us. I looked out in front of me and saw the man again. He pulled himself along the shoulder, leaving a dark trail in the dirt. He went by fits and starts, disappearing now and then and reappearing farther down the road. Brownie never let me down. She saw him yapping, tugging at the leash, too.
We walked almost a mile and then we saw a patch of tall weeds and grass, flattened as if something heavy had passed through it. In the ditch was a wrecked car, half-buried in muddy water, the roof caved in, the windshield broken. My heart pounded as I stumbled down the embankment with Brownie whining at my side.
The man was inside the car. The very same man who'd knocked on my door. His body was twisted and broken, the face torn up by something, an animal or the crash. It was such a dreadful sight that I reeled backwards, the bile rising in my throat.
I was shaking, and I pulled out my phone to call 911. The dispatcher’s voice was calm and businesslike, but I could hardly get the words out. In twenty minutes the lights of the cruiser came on, shining into the ditch. The officers dragged the body out of the wreck, their faces white in the pitiless light.
One turned to me, voice low. “We've been chasing him for days. must have crashed and crawled for help “The poor bastard didn’t have a prayer.
I nodded, numbly, hardly able to believe my eyes.
I couldn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw that bloody, ruined face, I heard the frantic knocking on my door. Brownie wandered around the house, whimpering softly, her eyes fixed on the door, as if waiting for him to return.
That night was months ago, but sometimes I still hear it, the soft, insistent tapping echoing through the dark, still countryside. I still look at the door, but there is no one there.
Do the dead return? Do they scream for help? Some nights I wonder if the guilt and horror of what we see can follow us forever. Either way, I won’t forget the night the knocking began, or the man who came to my door for help I couldn’t give.
And now if I hear a knock at midnight, I think twice before answering.