The night after the funeral

My friend had a tragic accident—his sister was fatally struck by a car on her way to school. I took an active part in the funeral and wake preparations, as neither he nor his mother were capable of making any decisions. In short, I barely slept for three days. After completing everything required of me regarding the funeral and wake, I returned home very tired and went straight to bed.

That night, in my sleep, I heard the doorbell ring. I decided to ignore it, saying I wasn't home. But the doorbell kept ringing persistently. "Aha," I realized, "so they know I'm home." The thought crossed my mind that it might be my friend. Perhaps he was feeling particularly lonely at home and had decided to spend the night at my place. I got out of bed and hurried to the door. It was 1:30 a.m.

 Having opened the first door, I was already reaching for the second, but a strange anxiety crept over me, and I decided to ask first:

"Who's there?"

I heard a voice in response. I immediately realized it wasn't my friend's voice. I couldn't even figure out who it belonged to—a woman, a man, or a child. A very strange, almost unrecognizable voice:

"Open up!"

Sleep slowly began to slip away from me. I asked:

"Who is that?"

I heard a more insistent response:

"Open up!"

The last vestiges of sleep completely vanished from me. I quickly began to imagine which of my neighbors I knew that voice might belong to. Then there was a dull thud on the bottom of the door, as if it had been kicked. This puzzled me. The urge to open it vanished completely.

Someone started tugging at the door handle from the other side.

 "I'll come out and box your ears!" I said menacingly, more to stifle the growing sense of dread.

"Open up!" said a rough, now distinctly male voice.

I looked through the peephole. It was dark, as if the light had been turned off or someone had covered the peephole with their hand. I didn't like that at all.

"I won't open it!" I said. "And if you keep ringing, I'll call the police."

An almost childish, ringing laugh rang out from behind the door, then that rough male voice said again:

"She won't help you."

After these words, instead of hysterically panicking, I became angry. Apparently, the funeral had taken its toll—all my senses were already dulled. I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a kitchen cleaver, and, running to the door, was about to open it and give the pranksters a good beating. I was almost opening it when I heard a joyful whisper from behind the door:

"It's opening!"

My hand stopped abruptly on the last click. Immediately, a tremendous blow fell on the door. I quickly began to close it again, locking it tightly. Someone behind the door howled in frustration.

"Whoever you are, leave me alone. Oh, my God, I've had enough for today; I can barely stand on my feet!" I said angrily, turning to the door.

A hissing sound came from behind the door, like water being splashed on hot coals.

I listened for another ten minutes. I heard no more rustling, voices, or noise.

I was so exhausted that I didn't bother to investigate and simply went to bed. In the morning, pondering what had happened, I still hadn't come to any conclusions.

 A little later, after some thought, I hung an icon and a cross on a string between the doors. Just in case...

A lot of time has passed since that night, but I still wonder who it was that came to me the night after the funeral.