Knock, knock.

Alex Cowen, age fifteen, sank back into the cacophony of clothes that was his closet. He breathed slowly, quietly, trying to place a reason for the eerie knocking at his bedroom door.

Knock, knock.

The knocking had begun maybe three minutes prior. Alex had first assumed it was his mother, and yelled for her to enter after storing away his magazines. However, the knocking had continued persistently, without the entrance of a human being.

Knock, knock!

Alex shivered. He had assumed it was his sister then, attempting to pull a prank, but Monica wouldn't keep this up for long. Nobody would bother to keep this up for long. But who was it? What was it? His imagination went haywire, conjuring up murders of all shapes and sizes… but it didn't make sense. The door was unlocked. If there were a murderer outside the door, they'd have barged in minutes ago.

Knock, knock!

The knocking increased its urgency, and Alex covered his eyes, shrinking further back into the horde of dress pants and baseball jerseys. Maybe it was simply something wrong with the door. Maybe Monica wasn't knocking: maybe she was engaging in her pitching practice by throwing baseballs at the wall near the door. Alex's mind was simply filling in blanks that weren't there.

Knock, KNOCK!

'I've been watching too many horror movies,' he thought with a sigh, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he inched out of his closet. There were the posters lining his walls, pictures pinned to the corkboard of last year's formal, an unmade bed, and an inconspicuous whitewashed door just begging for him to open.

Knock, KNOCK!

Alex crossed the room and slowly turned the knob of the door.

KNOCK, KNOCK!

He flung the door open, and there was nothing, nothing at all to be seen. Alex let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and turned around, gazing around at the empty room. And then- and then there was pain.

The knocking had stopped.

And there he was, the murderer. The skyscraper-tall murderer who stood above Alex Cowen's fading corpse with a posture that could be described as immaculate, yet an expression completely indistinguishable. The murderer with his shiny bald head and long, slender fingers. The murderer that watched yet did not see, for this man had no face. No defining features.

He was an enigma.


Sheriff Don Walrus lounged in his easy chair, sipping a large cup of coffee (three sugars, two creams) and indulging on a Twinkie or two while he gazed sleepily at the television. The weatherman from the town over discussed a cloudy forecast, but Don failed to pay the device much attention. He was content to laze about in the confines of his home.

In this small, private town of approximately a thousand people, there wasn't much cause for a police department, nor much of a job for Don to commit to. Those who didn't know Don Walrus would call him a sad man: he was quite rotund, nearing his fifties, wifeless, and held a career that didn't require much effort. However, Don was satisfied with his introverted, gluttonous life. Better to dwell in the past anyway, wasn't it?

Thus, Don was slightly surprised when his telephone rang from the other side of the room. He didn't care for cordless phones- the development of technology these days was simply outrageous!- so with great effort he removed himself from the easy chair and shuffled to the other side of the room. Who would be calling at this hour?

With forced cheer in his tone, he lifted the receiver to his mouth. "Hello?"

Sobbing, without constraint, was heard on the other side of the connection. "Are you the police?" a woman's voice gasped out before emitting another heaving sob.

Don Walrus, who hadn't received an urgent call since the car crash some fifteen years ago, immediately snapped into action. Perhaps this was cause for becoming the sheriff, for taking law enforcement classes in high school, for all this waiting. Perhaps something interesting was finally going to happen.

"Miss, I understand you are traumatized, but I need you to take a few deep breaths and tell me what has happened. What is your name and purpose for calling the Desenville Police Department?"

"My- my name is Cynthia, sir. Cynthia Cowen. And- and my son!" the woman called out hysterically, accompanied by another gut-wrenching moan.

"Your son?" Don encouraged. He felt simultaneously excited by the call and awful for grinning at Cynthia's plea for help.

"My son. I found him! He's gone!"

"Gone?"

"Dead. He's DEAD. He's been murdered!"

Don paused for a moment and covered his mouth with his hand. How sickening it was to be smiling at the thought of murder, but it was murder! An excitement in Don Walrus' dull life! This would make the news! Trying to contain himself, he spoke again into the telephone. "Now, listen to me, Cynthia," he said, kicking off his slippers haphazardly, "It's going to be okay. I will be there in five minutes. Where do you live?"

"Mass Street. Thirty-three… thirty-three Mass Street. Sheriff, you have to come. Alex is dead, dead."

"I'm on my way, Mrs. Cowen. Try to keep calm," he replied. And with that, he phoned the morgue from the town over, slammed the phone down into its holder, dressed in proper clothes, and ran out the door as fast as an obese sheriff physically can.

For once, as Sheriff Walrus entered his high contrasting vehicle, he was allowed to turn on the flashing lights and the loud, eardrum-piercing siren. And it was invigorating.


A/N: Here's a little something I wrote in my adventurous seventh grade year, when I conjured up an image of a faceless man without ever having heard of the "Slenderman" (or whatever you call him). So if you happen to draw any comparisons, I did not mean to make use of a copyrighted idea.
Complete, this rewrite of "Knock, Knock" should end up around 10,000 words. Review at your leisure- feedback is appreciated. Thank you. :)