Doorbell

My doorbell rings in such a way that a low, tinkling sound will continue until the person calling removes their finger from the button. Over the years I've lived here, I've learned to tell by the ringing sound who exactly is calling. Everyone has their own technique. Some ring one short time, some two longer times, and still others would keep pressing the button until I open the door. Strangers, who occasionally drop by each of us, usually ring either one long time or two short times.

Five years ago, in the middle of the night, I heard four unusual short rings. Frankly, it alarmed me a little. I live far from the ground floor, and the very fact that someone came up to me in the middle of the night for some unknown reason gave me a reason to ignore the caller. Fortunately, my windows face the courtyard, so I could easily check who was about to leave the building. I stood by the window for about fifteen minutes, but no one came out. But there were no more calls either.

On the second day, I was awake again when someone rang the doorbell four times. I was just leaving the bathroom at the time, making quite a noise. Even if it wasn't noise, whoever was on the other side of the front door probably realized someone was home. I cautiously pressed my head against the peephole, but to my surprise, I saw absolutely no one in the stairwell. I even dared to open the door and peek through – no one.

On the third day, I remember telling someone this uninteresting story about the late-night phone calls, and I vividly remember how, at the end of the story, I said, "Death must have opened the wrong door." My companions laughed, but I was suddenly overcome with anxiety. My own words sounded somehow eerie, even to myself. That same night, four short rings rang again. This time, it really scared me. And along with the fear, the thought came that I was imagining it all. Nevertheless, I moved to open the door, but, just like last time, there was no one there.

On the fourth evening, a friend came to my door asking for help fixing his cell phone and just to chat. We stayed up late, and this friend witnessed calls from an unknown, invisible visitor on the other side. When the doorbell rang, I was fiddling with his phone. I pretended to be so engrossed in my work that I didn't notice the ringing. I glanced sideways at my friend, wondering if he'd heard the sound. If not, I'd go to the doctor the next day. But he heard it all perfectly well. "Who's calling at this hour?" he asked. Shrugging, I carefully approached the door again. Of course, there was no one there. My friend, unlike me, wasn't the timid type. He said, "We'll deal with these jokers now," and ran down the stairs. That was the last time I saw him. No, he didn't go missing or die under strange circumstances. He simply ran into a drunken and aggressive group of people who beat him half to death, and he died in the hospital a few days later.

The most terrifying part of this whole story was that after this tragedy, all phone calls stopped. And until recently, I hadn't thought about it. Until last night, when I heard four intermittent knocks on the door...