The Knock

The mover had just left, and the kettle had finished boiling. She was ready to enjoy a nice cup of tea, hoping the warmth would settle her nerves in this new, unfamiliar house. Her hands cradled the mug, seeking comfort, but just as she sat down, a sharp, unexpected tap echoed from the front door. A sigh of irritation escaped her lips; her tea would have to wait. She left it steaming on the kitchen bench, recalling—perhaps with a touch of sarcasm—how people had assured her that this neighbourhood was friendly.

She had spent the past few years stuck in a rut, working at a soulless corporate job. The daily grind had drained her, leaving little time or energy to find love or even form genuine friendships. She felt that everyone wanted her money or tried to use her for their own advantage, and the isolation gnawed at her spirit, making each attempt at connection feel hollow or transactional.

By the time she reached the door, the street outside was silent—whoever had knocked was already gone. She peered through the frosted glass, a flicker of suspicion rising. Probably some local kids playing knock and run, she thought. But then she noticed a basket on the doorstep, brimming with biscuits, and no note attached. The faint scent of freshly baked biscuits mingled with the crisp morning air as she hesitated at the doorstep, scanning the quiet street for any sign of movement. The morning chill raised goosebumps on her arms, and an uneasy prickle crept up her neck. Was this a neighbourly gesture, or something more sinister?

Her mind churned with unease as she lifted the basket, the cellophane crinkling beneath her fingertips. She peered left and right—just empty pavement and a few parked cars—before entering the house, her heart pounding with every step. The silence pressed in, amplifying her uncertainty. Unable to shake the tingle of anxiety, she added a biscuit to her tea and tried, unsuccessfully, to put it out of her mind. She longed for the comfort of trust, a sense of belonging, but suspicion shadowed her hope.

Over the next few days, small gifts continued to arrive at her door: a bouquet of wildflowers, a handwritten poem, a tiny box of chocolates. Each delivery brought with it a mix of curiosity, fear, and a desperate yearning to believe in the kindness of strangers. Yet, beneath every hopeful thought, dread simmered. Was someone watching her? Was this a harmless welcome, or the prelude to something darker?

Her worst fears crystallised when a note finally arrived, its simple message chilling her to the bone: “I love the colours of your bedroom.” No one had been in her bedroom since she’d moved in. Her breath caught in her throat, panic blossoming. She examined the latest basket more closely, the world narrowing to the grain of the woven willow and the sinister glint of a hidden camera nestled between the biscuits. Her thoughts raced—how long had she been watched? Who could it be? Was it someone she’d already met, or a stranger in the shadows?

Hands trembling, she threw the basket into the bin, her pulse hammering in her ears. Alone in her new home, fear pressed down on her chest, cold and suffocating. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of wind at the window, set her nerves on edge. She wondered if she would ever feel safe again, or if this fresh start was destined to become another cage. Yet, deep inside, a fragile hope flickered—that she might find the strength to reclaim her peace and trust, one day, even in the face of such uncertainty.