A knock on the door

It was already past midnight when I suddenly heard a knock on the front door. This in itself was unusual: firstly, I have no friends, and my relatives live in another city, and secondly, why knock on the door if there's a doorbell? After thinking about it, I decided not to open the door.

Meanwhile, the knock came again (and, it seemed to me, louder than the last one). I put on headphones and started listening to music to block it out. After about 15 minutes, the knocking became so loud that it cut through the music. A scraping sound, like someone was scraping my metal door with claws, was now added. Breaking out in a cold sweat, I walked to the door, reassuring myself that it was just some drunk who had mixed up the doors and was trying to break in. On the way, I turned on all the lights and grabbed the baseball bat I kept in the hallway for just such occasions. Approaching the door, I shouted something obscene, advising the late-night visitor to leave. Indistinct grunts and mutterings answered.

I didn't bother looking through the peephole, much less opening the door. Instead, I went to the phone and called the police, telling them someone was trying to break down my door. By the time they arrived, the noise had died down, but I was still afraid to open it. They came in, wrote up a report, then came out to take another look at the door. One glance was enough to tell me the door would have to be replaced: fist-sized dents and long, deep scratches were quite telling.

After taking a couple of photos, the police left, leaving me alone with the damaged door. I didn't sleep that night. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't look through the peephole.