It started with the knocking.
Soft at first, just a gentle tap-tap-tap at my door late at night. I thought it was the wind or maybe an animal, but it happened again the next night—and the night after that. Each time, it got louder. More insistent.
One night, around 2 AM, I decided to check. When I opened the door, two children stood there—boy and a girl, no older than ten. They were dressed strangely, like something out of an old photograph, with dark, threadbare clothes that seemed out of place in the chilly autumn air.
"Can we come in?" the girl asked, her voice flat and emotionless.
I felt a chill run down my spine. There was something wrong about them. The way they stood there, so still. The way their heads didn't quite tilt right. But it wasn't until I saw their eyes that true fear set in.
They were black—completely black. No whites, no iris, just endless, empty voids staring back at me.
"We're lost," the boy added. "Please let us in."
My mouth went dry, and every instinct screamed at me to slam the door. But I couldn't move. I felt rooted to the spot, my hand trembling on the doorknob. Something about those eyes… I could feel them pulling me in, dragging me down into that endless darkness.
I snapped out of it and slammed the door shut, locking it. But the knocking didn't stop. It grew louder. Harder. The windows rattled, and the air grew heavy, thick with something I couldn't explain.
"We won't hurt you," came the girl's voice again, muffled through the door. "Just let us in."
I didn't sleep that night. The knocking continued until dawn, then suddenly stopped. I looked out the window, but they were gone.
For days, I thought I'd imagined it, until I heard a knock on my neighbor's door. The same soft tap-tap-tap. I peeked through the blinds and saw them—those same black-eyed children—standing there, waiting.
My neighbor let them in.
They haven't been seen since.