PART 4: THIS IS WHY PEOPLE ARE SCARED TO CAMP IN THE DARK DIVIDE WASHINGTON – Bigfoot Stories
PART 4 — THE FOURTH KNOCK
The fourth knock was still echoing through the house when I realized something.
It hadn’t come from the front door.
It had come from inside my bedroom.
I stood on the porch with the piece of wood still clutched in my hand.
ELIAS MERCER.
The name felt wrong.
Not unfamiliar.
Wrong.
Like seeing a photograph of yourself where the face had been replaced by someone else’s.
My dog stood beside me, staring through the open doorway.
He wouldn’t go inside.
I couldn’t blame him.
Neither would I.
I reached for the flashlight on my belt and stepped across the threshold.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
The refrigerator had stopped humming.
The clock on the wall had stopped ticking.
Even the electricity seemed to have disappeared.
But the lights were still on.
That was the first thing that made no sense.
The second was the smell.
Damp earth.
It was everywhere.
The same smell I had noticed in Walter’s basement.
I slowly closed the front door.
The moment the latch clicked, the lights went out.
My flashlight came on automatically.
The beam shook in my hand.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I immediately regretted speaking.
The woman at Walter’s farmhouse had told me not to answer when they called my name.
But I had already done worse.
I had called into the darkness.
I moved toward the hallway.
The floorboards creaked beneath my boots.
Then I saw something.
A wet footprint.
Bare.
It was in the middle of the hallway.
Then another.
And another.
They led toward my bedroom.
I followed them.
Not because I wanted to.
Because some part of me already knew where they were going.
The bedroom door was open.
I had left it closed.
I aimed the flashlight inside.
Nothing.
My bed.
My desk.
The closet.
Everything looked normal.
Except for the wall.
There was writing on it.
Hundreds of words.
Names.
Dates.
Places.
Some were written in black.
Some in red.
Some looked as if they had been scratched directly into the plaster.
I stepped closer.
The first name belonged to Walter.
The second belonged to Daniel Mercer.
The third was one I didn’t recognize.
Then another.
And another.
Every name had a date beside it.
Some dated back decades.
The oldest was from 1947.
The newest was today’s date.
My stomach tightened.
Beside it was my name.
Except it wasn’t my name.
It read:
ELIAS MERCER — 2026
I stared at it.
Then I noticed something beneath the name.
A sentence.
Four words.
RETURNED AFTER FORTY YEARS.
I backed away from the wall.
“No.”
The flashlight slipped from my hand.
It hit the floor.
The beam spun across the room.
And for one second, it illuminated the mirror.
Someone was standing behind me.
I turned.
Nobody.
I looked back at the mirror.
The figure was still there.
A tall man.
Standing directly behind my shoulder.
His face was hidden beneath a hood.
I spun around again.
Nothing.
I looked at the mirror.
The man had moved closer.
His face was now visible.
I froze.
It was my face.
Older.
Much older.
Gray hair.
Deep scars across the cheek.
One eye cloudy.
But unmistakably me.
The reflection lifted one hand.
I didn’t.
It pressed a finger against the glass.
Then it mouthed three words.
You came back.
The mirror cracked.
I stumbled backward.
The glass shattered.
Something fell from behind it.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
There were six people standing outside a wooden cabin.
The photograph looked decades old.
Five of the faces were unfamiliar.
The sixth was impossible.
It was me.
Not someone who looked like me.
Me.
Same face.
Same scar above my eyebrow.
Same crooked smile.
Except I was wearing clothes from the 1980s.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
ELIAS MERCER — AUGUST 1986.
I dropped it.
My mind refused to accept what I was seeing.
I was born in 1982.
I knew that.
I knew my parents.
I knew where I grew up.
I knew my childhood.
I knew my entire life.
Didn’t I?
I reached for my phone.
No signal.
I tried calling the woman from the farmhouse.
Nothing.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
No number.
Just words.
GO TO THE CREEK.
Another message arrived.
BEFORE THEY WAKE HIM.
Then another.
DO NOT TRUST THE WOMAN.
I stared at the screen.
The woman.
The stranger at Walter’s house.
Whoever she was, she had told me not to trust the voices.
Now someone was telling me not to trust her.
I didn’t know what to believe.
Then I heard something outside.
A vehicle.
I rushed to the window.
Headlights appeared at the end of the driveway.
A truck.
It stopped.
The driver’s door opened.
The woman stepped out.
She looked directly toward my bedroom.
Then she raised a hand.
Not waving.
Warning me.
Behind her, something moved in the trees.
She turned.
Her expression changed.
Fear.
She ran toward the house.
I grabbed my rifle.
By the time she reached the porch, I was waiting behind the door.
She knocked once.
“Open the door.”
I didn’t.
“Who are you?”
“Open the door.”
“You lied to me.”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“I didn’t lie.”
“You knew about Elias Mercer.”
Her breathing stopped.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said:
“How did you find that name?”
“It was on my wall.”
Another silence.
“Then they’re already inside.”
I tightened my grip on the rifle.
“What does that mean?”
She answered quietly.
“They don’t need to come through the door anymore.”
Behind me, something moved.
I turned.
The hallway was empty.
But the bedroom door slowly swung shut.
The woman screamed:
“Don’t look at the mirror!”
Too late.
I looked.
The shattered mirror was reflecting the hallway.
But there was someone standing behind me.
The older version of myself.
He was no longer inside the glass.
He was standing in the hallway.
I turned.
Nothing.
The woman rushed through the door.
“Where is he?”
I pointed toward the hallway.
She looked.
Her face drained of color.
“You saw him.”
“Who is he?”
She swallowed.
“That’s Elias.”
“I’m Elias.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You aren’t Elias.”
She pointed toward the photograph.
“You’re what came back.”
I felt my blood run cold.
“What came back?”
She stepped closer.
“In 1986, six people went into these woods.”
She pointed at the photograph.
“Only five came back.”
I stared at the picture.
“Who’s missing?”
She looked at me.
“You.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain had no other response.
“You expect me to believe I disappeared forty years ago?”
“I expect you to remember.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a cassette tape.
An old one.
She held it toward me.
“Listen.”
I took it.
“What is this?”
“Your last recording.”
“My what?”
“Before they took you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
She placed the cassette player on the table.
I pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then a voice.
A young man’s voice.
My voice.
“August 17th. 1986.”
I stopped breathing.
The recording continued.
“We found the cave.”
Static.
“They told us not to go inside.”
A pause.
“We’re going anyway.”
Another voice in the background.
Someone shouting.
Then my voice again.
“If anyone finds this…”
The tape crackled.
“…don’t say my name.”
The recording suddenly became distorted.
A loud banging sound followed.
One knock.
Two.
Three.
Then a fourth.
My own voice screamed:
“They know we’re here!”
The tape stopped.
I stared at the machine.
The woman whispered:
“That was the last time anyone heard you.”
“But I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She looked toward the woods.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Six people.
Five survivors.
One missing.
And somehow, forty years later, I had returned.
“Who were the other five?”
She hesitated.
Then she gave me five names.
Walter.
Daniel Mercer.
A man named Thomas Vale.
A woman named Ruth Harker.
And herself.
I stared at her.
“You’re in the photograph.”
She nodded.
“What happened to the others?”
“Walter disappeared three days ago.”
“Daniel?”
“Taken before him.”
“Thomas?”
“Dead.”
“Ruth?”
“Dead twenty-seven years.”
I stared at her.
“And you?”
She smiled sadly.
“I’m the last one.”
Something moved beneath the floor.
The woman immediately looked down.
“How long?”
I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“How long until they come?”
She looked at her watch.
Then at me.
“Until midnight.”
I checked the clock.
11:42.
Eighteen minutes.
“What happens at midnight?”
She picked up her lantern.
“The boundary opens.”
“What boundary?”
“The one keeping them beneath the forest.”
I remembered the words Daniel had spoken.
The ones underneath.
I looked toward the woods.
“Why do they want me?”
The woman walked toward the back door.
“Because you were the first.”
“First what?”
She stopped.
“You were the first person they changed.”
The floor shook.
My dog began barking.
Then came the knocks.
From beneath the house.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The woman opened the back door.
“We have sixteen minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“The creek.”
I grabbed my rifle.
“What happens if we don’t?”
She looked at me.
“They’ll open the door.”
“What door?”
She didn’t answer.
We stepped outside.
The woods were waiting.
We crossed the yard.
My dog stayed close.
The woman walked quickly, never looking back.
After several minutes, I noticed something strange.
There were footprints in the mud.
Dozens of them.
All heading toward the creek.
None coming back.
We followed them.
The forest became darker.
The trees seemed closer together.
Then I heard something.
A child’s voice.
It came from somewhere ahead.
“Help me.”
I stopped.
The woman grabbed my arm.
“Don’t.”
The voice came again.
“Please.”
It sounded like a little girl.
“Please help me.”
I looked at the woman.
Her face had gone white.
“Do you know her?”
She nodded.
“Who is she?”
The woman whispered:
“Ruth.”
The dead woman.
The one who had died twenty-seven years ago.
The voice called again.
Then another voice joined it.
Thomas.
Then Walter.
Then Daniel.
Then my father.
All of them calling my name.
The woman covered her ears.
“Don’t listen.”
But I couldn’t stop.
The voices became louder.
And then one final voice joined them.
My own.
But this one wasn’t old.
It sounded exactly like me.
It whispered from somewhere ahead:
“Come to the creek.”
We reached the clearing.
The creek was black beneath the moonlight.
On the opposite bank stood a cabin.
The same cabin from the photograph.
I had never seen it before.
But I recognized it instantly.
The woman stopped.
“We’re here.”
I looked at the cabin.
“What’s inside?”
She whispered:
“The reason you came back.”
A light appeared in the cabin window.
Then another.
Then another.
Six silhouettes appeared behind the glass.
Five stood motionless.
The sixth slowly turned toward us.
Even from across the creek, I knew the face.
Mine.
The older version.
He raised his hand.
And pointed toward the water.
Something was floating in the creek.
A body.
It drifted closer.
I stepped toward it.
The woman screamed:
“No!”
But I was already moving.
The body rolled over.
It was a man.
His clothes were old.
His face was pale.
And around his neck hung a rusted metal tag.
I pulled him toward the bank.
The woman began crying.
“Who is he?”
She didn’t answer.
I looked at the tag.
There were four words engraved into it.
ELIAS MERCER — SUBJECT ONE.
Then the corpse opened its eyes.
And whispered:
“You’re not supposed to remember.”
Behind us, four knocks echoed through the forest.
The cabin door opened.
And every silhouette inside turned toward us at once.
The woman grabbed my arm.
“Run.”
I didn’t move.
Because I finally understood what the four knocks meant.
They weren’t knocking on doors.
They were counting.
One for each time the boundary had been crossed.
And tonight, the fourth knock had come from inside my house.
Which meant something had already crossed.
Something wearing my face.
Something that had been waiting forty years to come home.
The corpse in my arms smiled.
Then it whispered the final words I would hear before the forest went dark.
“They sent you back first.”
A pause.
“Now they’re coming for the rest of us.”
