The first time it happened, David barely stirred. It was late, and he chalked the faint chime of the doorbell up to a dream or perhaps a prank by neighborhood kids. He turned over, pulled the blanket tighter around him, and drifted back to sleep.
But it happened again the next night.
And the night after that.
By the fourth night, David was sitting upright in bed before the doorbell even rang, staring into the darkness of his room. The sound was clear and deliberate, cutting through the silence at exactly 3:03 AM.
He crept to the front door, heart pounding. The porch light cast a pale glow over the empty steps, revealing nothing but the bare welcome mat.
He opened the door cautiously, the hinges creaking louder than he remembered. The street was quiet, bathed in moonlight, with no sign of anyone nearby.
"Damn kids," he muttered, closing the door and locking it with a shaky hand.
The following morning, curiosity got the better of him. David scrolled through the security footage from his doorbell camera, expecting to see nothing. But what he found made his blood run cold.
At precisely 3:03 AM, the camera captured a figure standing on his doorstep. The figure was hunched, shivering, and banging on the doorbell in desperation.
It was him.
David's heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the footage. It wasn't just a vague resemblance—it was him. Same tousled hair, same threadbare hoodie, same weary expression.
The David on the screen leaned closer to the camera, his face pale and gaunt. His lips moved, but there was no audio. Then he stumbled back, glanced around nervously, and disappeared from view.
David couldn't sleep that night. He sat in the living room, watching the clock tick closer to 3:03 AM. The digital display on his phone glowed in the darkness, its light reflected in his wide, unblinking eyes.
When the doorbell rang, he jumped.
It took him a moment to gather the courage to stand. He crept toward the door, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. Through the peephole, the porch was empty.
But the ringing continued.
David yanked open the door. Nothing. Just the quiet street and the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.
This time, he didn't bother checking the footage. He didn't want to see it again.
The next night, David stayed up, armed with a baseball bat. The ringing came at the same time, sharp and insistent.
"I'm not afraid of you!" he shouted, yanking open the door.
This time, he wasn't alone.
A figure stood on the porch, but it wasn't entirely human. It wore his face but looked wrong—its eyes were sunken and hollow, its skin pale and stretched tight over its bones. Its movements were jittery, like a glitch in a video game.
"Let me in," the figure whispered, its voice raspy and trembling.
David stumbled back, dropping the bat. "What… what are you?"
The figure tilted its head, studying him with a strange intensity. "You already know."
"I don't… I don't understand!"
"You will," it said, stepping forward.
David slammed the door shut and locked it, his heart pounding in his chest. The doorbell rang again, louder this time. The sound echoed in his ears, relentless and mocking.
Days turned into weeks, and David became a shell of his former self. The doorbell rang every night, always at 3:03 AM, and always with the same desperate plea from the thing that wore his face.
He stopped checking the footage. He stopped answering the door. He stopped sleeping.
One night, he couldn't take it anymore. He ripped the doorbell from the wall, wires sparking in protest. He smashed it under his heel, breathing heavily.
But at 3:03 AM, the ringing came again.
It wasn't coming from the door.
David turned toward the sound, his blood running cold. The ringing was inside the house, echoing from the darkened hallway.
He followed it, his steps slow and deliberate. The sound led him to the bedroom mirror.
His reflection stared back at him, its face contorted in fear. It raised its hand, pounding against the glass as if trying to break through.
"Let me in!" it screamed, its voice muffled and distant.
David stumbled back, his mind spinning. He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand.
The reflection leaned closer, its eyes wide and desperate. "If you don't, it'll be too late."
The glass cracked, spiderwebbing outward.
David ran.
The police found him days later, huddled in the corner of his living room, muttering incoherently. The doorbell camera footage from the night of his disappearance was disturbing.
At 3:03 AM, David appeared on the porch, pounding on the door, his face pale and desperate.
Inside the house, the real David was nowhere to be found.
The doorbell never rang again.