Knock.
Knock.
The door has been hit over and over again while we huddle in the basement, waiting for dawn to break the deep blue of the sky. This countryside has its own reason for being haunted. Every year, on the same day, knocks sound upon all the doors in the towns between the two rivers.
Every ten year old thinks it's a game-until they reach eleven years. The whispers start, playing a game few can win.
Knock.
Knock.
I can imagine the fear grip the children into near submission because beside me my brother is rocking in a fetal position, back and forth.
Knock. Swing backward.
Knock. Swing forward.
I still have two more years, but I don't think the haunting will get into my head. I can't see myself spiraling out of control like the kid down the street.
I could hear his screams from the moon.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocks move to the windows, slowly circling the house. The glass might as well break.
Knock.
Knock.
I look up to check the moon's position, but I am greeted with unwelcoming red eyes.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
I can feel the sanity expel itself from my mind.