Don't Answer The Third Knock - Annual Halloween Story

31 October 2026

2034

R. Linda:

In Tramore, Ireland, there was an old warning that one never answers the door on the third summons. That old warning has mostly passed into history now, remembered only by the oldest among us. I had an old aunt who lived in Tramore, and when I visited her, I remember she told me sissy and meself, this warning. We, being curious youngsters, asked her why that was, and she told us this:

"The first knocking be the wind. The second knocking be a traveller, and the third knocking be someone already dead."

We sat in stunned silence at the thought. I know we looked at each other, our eyes big with wonder and a bit of dread. We'd never heard the like of it before, and we weren't sure how to take her warning.

I remember we were staying with her in the middle of a rather harsh, snowy winter. Our Da had a job in London, and Mam went to visit him for a few days. At the time, the only good money was made across the sea, and that's where our Da went. We were dropped off at our Da's sister, Aine (pronounced Awn-ya), who was his elder sister by quite a few years. We thought she was his Gran, white-haired, and ancient as she was, but no, no, she was his sister. Maybe because she seemed so old, we had a grain more respect for her than the rest of our family of O'Connors and O'Sullivans.  

We listened to her every word, as our Mam had threatened us with no supper for a month if we did not behave our bad selves. We did chores as directed, helped when not asked, answered politely and were model Irish citizens of the adolescent type. Yes, it was a big and hard thing for both of us, but we managed.

I remember one day of our stay; the morning started with wispy snow and wind blowing off the Atlantic. It was bitter outside when I went for wood for the stove and hearth. Me face was red from the sting of the wind chill, and the snowflakes that hit me face were ice cold. 

"It's going to be a rouser, thot storm," I announced, stacking the wood.

"Ock! It shall be an' more." Me auntie said. "We will batten down the hatches, as yer uncle would say."

And we did, by evening. We spent the day watching the flakes become thick and steady. The snow piled up and was shovelled many times, but it was for nought. 

"Just leave it, me boyo. I appreciate yer effort, I do, but it's goin' to be tick an' heavy an' not wort' yer toil." Auntie said, as she made tea to go with the scones she and Sheila had made earlier that day.

And it did pile up fast. The wind banged the closed shutters, which startled Sheila and me, until Aunt Aine told us, "Jus' da wind tryin' to coom in, be all."

The wind took up whistling around the cottage, and the whooing sound reminded us of ghostly voices wanting in. This led to Sheila telling me ghost stories, mostly with Auntie making snorting noises of disbelief, as if to emphasise some fantastical part. 

That night, with the howling wind, the shutters beating their rhythm against the house, and the ghost stories, we were primed for superstitious nonsense. Yes, that included Auntie Aine. The cottage had no electricity, and the blaze in the fireplace, the popping of the hot logs sending sparks up the chimney, and the candlelight would ordinarily make for a cosy setting, but not with that wind, the shutters, and the snow swirling down. Or, I should say, after Sheila's telling of the tales she told with such relish that made Auntie and me half believe her. Well, I can admit now that I believed every word. 

Just as we fell silent and contemplated ghosts by the fire, there came a knocking. At first, we all sat straight up, wondering if we had heard it. Auntie made the hush sign with her finger to her lips. We listened hard. Nothing.

"Probably the wind be all," Auntie concluded.

We settled back down, Auntie taking up some knitting, Sheila thumbing through a magazine and me making a cat's cradle, there was a sudden gust of wind, and it rattled the cottage; it did. We all looked up at the door. Silence, nothing but the sound of the wind. Sheila whispered, "One summons the wind, a second, a traveller..." when, another knock sounded! 

"A third, a dead person!" Sheila blurted out

Auntie stood up straight out of her chair, looking unnerved. Sheila moved behind her chair, and I hid behind Auntie's skirts; I'd be embarrassed to admit it, but I did. Auntie looked about her with indecision about what to do.

When Auntie refused to open the door, we heard a voice like a whisper over the storm, it said, "Ye aren't gunna leave me outside in all dis arr ye?"

"Don't let it in!" Sheila warned as I grabbed hold of Auntie's apron strings to keep her from the door she started toward. She turned around.

"Wot ye doing dere, Gabriel? Let me goo." 

"Nooo, I can't do it, Auntie, ye mustn't." I pleaded.

The voice came again and said, "Open oop! I be freezin' me jewels off out 'ere. Wots da matter wit ya woman?"

To me horror, she pulled me small hands from the apron strings and went to the door. Sheila pulled me behind the chair with her, her arms around me as if to protect me, but I knew better; it was so she could throw me toward the ghost coming through the door, and make her get away out the back.

Auntie started laughing at us and opened the door. We watched as the ghost came in. It was white, and snow covered it. We could see facial features under the snowy, ice-encased face; yes, we could. Sheila's intake of breath scared me more as I tried to get out of her clutches before she could propel me toward said ghost.

"Com 'ere an' give yer uncle a kiss." The ghost said. 

Uncle? Dead uncle? No way, Jose, were either of us kissing a dead Uncle. Not then, not ever.

The ghost started laughing along with Auntie Aine. 

"Christ on a bike! It's me, Uncle Malachy." 

By then, Auntie was shaking him out of his snow-covered coat, he was removing his snow-covered boots and hat, and Sheila, the twerp, was putting the kettle on to warm him up! I stood in the middle of the room like a sheep about to be slaughtered. 

He gestured for me to come forward. Reluctantly, I crept close enough to see that he was, in fact, flesh and blood, with a red nose from the cold and eyebrows full of melting snow.

"I taught yer were dead," I muttered.

"Not tonight, anyway," Uncle Malachy grinned, rubbing his cold hands before the fire. "Though another five minutes oot dere an' I'd haf gladly haunted da place instead." This said with a glance at Auntie, who was chuckling.

"Ye pair of eejits," she said. "Did ye really tink I'd leave me own hoosband, ta freeze because of an old story?"

"But ye said never ta answer da turd summons!" Sheila protested. 

"Actually, it wus da second." Auntie grew quiet then, poking the fire with an iron poker until a shower of sparks floated up the chimney.

"I said never answer it if it were da turd," she replied.

"But…" Sheila whined.

"Count da knockings, Sheila; dere were two summons."

She would say no more. Sheila sat down, counting on her fingers, and then realised she had jumped the gun. It was only two. BUT, I thought to meself, will there be a third? However, with Uncle home, I felt safe.

The storm raged through the night, shaking the little cottage until dawn. By morning, the world lay under a blanket of white, and the wind had finally tired itself out. It wasn't until after breakfast that the knocking came again.

One knock, then another knock. I looked at Uncle, then at Sheila; both looked at me, and we were all startled. Then Uncle smiled, "Now who's da fool afraid of stories?" he said, reaching for the latch.

"Leave it!" Auntie said sharply.

The smile vanished from his face. 

A third knock came. Not loud, not hurried, just... certain. Nobody moved. After a long while, just silence. We waited another minute before Uncle sighed heavily and opened the door. 

No one stood outside. Only untouched snow stretched from the doorstep to the lane. Not a footprint, not one. We all stared into the white stillness. Auntie quietly shut the door, slid the bolt across it, and crossed herself.

A few years later, when I was old enough to ask her again about the warning, she only smiled that same tired smile. 

"The first knocking," she said, "be the wind. The second be someone who needs shelter, and the turd…" She looked out toward the sea. "… the turd be someone who's come to see if ye're ready to leave wit 'em."

I asked if she'd ever opened the door on the third knock.

"Nooo," she said.

"Does anyone ever?"

She stirred her tea for a long moment before answering.

"Everyone does," she whispered. "Once."

I sat contemplating her words and remembered Uncle Malachy sitting by the fire that night, warming his hands and laughingly saying, "Not tonight, anyway." 

I never laughed at the old stories after that, because it was shortly after that me uncle died. And if there's one thing I've taught me own kiddos, it be this: If the wind is howling around the house on a winter's night, and there be knocking on the door, the first visitor be the wind; the second summons, let them in, and the third... make certain who it is before you lift the latch. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

A Grand Day Out — Or So They Thought

30 October 2026

2033

R. Linda:

For the last couple of years, me Mam and me wife, Tonya, have made an annual autumn pilgrimage to Vermont to visit what I call "the old persons' store" — otherwise known as the Vermont Country Store.

This, apparently, is their official kickoff to Christmas shopping.

Now, I don't quite understand how spending a small fortune on kitchen gadgets for themselves constitutes Christmas shopping, but I've learned not to question these things. Whatever makes them happy, right?

Every autumn, they look forward to this little expedition. There's the scenery, of course: brilliant foliage on both sides of the Connecticut River, quaint shops, and the promise of discovering some old-fashioned kitchen implement they never knew they couldn't live without.

But I suspect the real attraction is eating out.

This year, other commitments had delayed their trip, and by the time they finally set off, the foliage was well past its peak. The trees had largely given up their autumn finery, but the ladies were determined. A few bare branches weren't going to interfere with their annual spending spree.

Unfortunately, the day seemed equally determined to interfere with them.

The first little hiccup came when Tonya realised she'd forgotten to put petrol in the vehicle. Halfway there, they had to stop and fill up. No great tragedy, just a minor inconvenience.

Little did they know it was merely the opening act.

Their next stop was the Christmas Shop on the way to Walpole, New Hampshire, where they traditionally pick up ornaments for the kiddos. Only this year, the shop apparently had no heat.

None.

Now, wandering about admiring Christmas decorations is one thing. Doing it while slowly turning into an icicle is quite another. To make matters worse, the selection was disappointing. So, after grabbing a couple of ornaments, they left before frostbite set in.

Back on the road, Tonya had the GPS running. Why, I couldn't tell you. They've made this journey often enough to know the way, but for some reason, Siri had been invited along.

And Siri, it seems, had ideas of her own.

Rather than taking them along their familiar route, she decided to give the ladies an unscheduled tour of the countryside, depositing them some five miles from where they ought to have been.

I suspect Siri was hoping they'd appreciate a scenic excursion through the Green Mountains. Mam and Tonya were less enthusiastic.

Eventually, they found their way back to the proper road, no thanks to their electronic tour guide, and arrived at the Vermont Country Store.

Inside was the usual assortment of what Mam affectionately calls "Q-tips" — elderly shoppers with white hair, wandering about at a pace suggesting they had nowhere particular to be before Thursday.

Mam, mind you, is no spring chicken herself, but she doesn't consider herself part of that demographic. Oh, no. She and Tonya are two spry chicks, darting between the oldsters and gathering kitchen treasures while the Q-tips meander through the aisles.

After a thorough inspection of the merchandise, they managed to accumulate over $300 worth of goodies.

Three hundred dollars!

And here's the part I don't understand. Both of them complained that the quality of the goods wasn't what it used to be.

Apparently, disappointment is no obstacle to spending.

With their purchases gathered, they headed towards the checkout. Tonya became distracted by a sweatshirt that caught her fancy, leaving Mam to join the queue.

Just as Mam approached, an elderly gentleman stepped directly in front of her.

Now, anyone who knows me Mam knows that queue-jumping is not an offence she takes lightly. Under normal circumstances, this fellow would have received a stern lecture on manners, possibly accompanied by a brief history of civilisation and where he'd gone wrong.

But Tonya was still engrossed in the sweatshirts, and Mam, perhaps too weary to engage in battle, merely sighed and stood behind him.

As it turned out, that ill-mannered old gentleman may have been their guardian angel.

Because shortly after leaving the store, they came upon a nasty three-car accident. There were injuries, and from the timing of it, they realised that had they left the store even a moment earlier, they might very well have been caught up in it.

Suddenly, that irritating little delay at the checkout didn't seem quite so irritating.

Mam said it gave her a new perspective on life's inconveniences. Perhaps, she mused, there are times when we're held up for a reason.

A rather profound thought for a woman who'd been ready to give an old fellow a piece of her mind only minutes before.

You'd think, after that, the day might have improved.

You'd be wrong.

Back in Walpole, the ladies stopped at their favourite chocolatier for their traditional treat: lattes and something deliciously decadent.

Now, most people eat lunch and then have dessert. Not these two. They prefer to start with dessert and worry about lunch afterwards. I've never understood the logic, but then, I wasn't consulted.

They ordered their lattes and some suitably gushy confections, anticipating a little reward for their shopping efforts.

The lattes arrived lukewarm.

The desserts were stale.

And the little chocolate ghosts they usually buy for the kiddos were now thirty dollars for five.

Thirty dollars! For five little chocolate ghosts!

At that price, I'd expect the ghosts to haunt the house, do the washing-up, and perhaps make themselves useful around Halloween.

Needless to say, the ghosts remained in the shop.

After picking half-heartedly at their disappointing sweets, the ladies gave up and headed towards Peterborough for what they hoped would be a proper gourmet lunch.

By now, they were looking a bit worse for wear.

Their hair was dishevelled, their enthusiasm was fading, and between the frozen Christmas shop, Siri's scenic detour, the disappointing purchases, the accident, and the stale desserts, they felt they'd already endured quite enough for one day.

All they wanted was a pleasant table beside the large window overlooking the water, a lovely lunch, and a chance to watch the river flow peacefully by.

Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

They entered the restaurant and approached the hostess.

The woman took one look at them.

Now, according to the ladies, this was a very particular look. The sort of look that suggests two bedraggled shoppers might not quite meet the establishment's standards.

The hostess announced that she'd have to check whether a table was available.

This struck them as odd, considering the car park was hardly overflowing. Still, they waited while she disappeared to investigate the apparently overwhelming demand for seating.

Eventually, she returned and led them through the pub.

Mam was already preparing to object. They hadn't come all this way for a pub lunch. They wanted the dining room, thank you very much.

But the hostess continued through to the dining room, where they discovered approximately three tables occupied.

Three.

Hardly the bustling lunchtime crowd they'd been led to expect.

The hostess showed them to a table one row back from the windows.

Tonya, eyeing the lovely view, politely asked whether they might sit at one of the two empty tables overlooking the water.

"No," came the answer. "Those tables are reserved."

And that, apparently, was that.

The ladies sat down, disappointed once again.

Tonya was quietly expressing her displeasure to Mam when their waiter appeared. He happened to notice the logo on Tonya's sweatshirt and struck up a conversation about their mutual fondness for the place it advertised.

A pleasant exchange followed, and then the waiter asked the question that would briefly restore their faith in humanity.

"Would you ladies like to sit by the window?"

"Why, yes!" Tonya exclaimed.

And just like that, they were whisked to the very table they'd been told was unavailable.

A small victory, but by this point in the day, they'd take whatever they could get.

A little later, the hostess came in to clear a table in the adjoining dining room and spotted the ladies comfortably installed by the window.

She gave Tonya a look that could have curdled milk.

Tonya, being Tonya, responded with a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat.

No words were exchanged.

None were necessary.

For one glorious moment, the ladies were triumphant.

Then they opened the menus.

Oh, dear.

The wonderful gourmet dishes and imaginative specials they'd been anticipating had disappeared, replaced by the sort of ordinary fare you could find in any number of restaurants.

All that fuss over the window, and there was barely anything on the menu worth looking at.

They ordered, ate, and tried not to dwell on yet another disappointment.

Now, when they'd first arrived, Tonya had noticed a rather attractive boutique nearby. She'd spotted some clothing in the window that appealed to her, and since lunch hadn't exactly lifted their spirits, they decided a little retail therapy might do the trick.

Into the boutique they went.

Unfortunately, the shop assistants appeared to take one look at their casual shopping attire and conclude that these two women were unlikely to be serious customers.

They kept their distance.

Perhaps the ladies were imagining it, but they certainly felt they'd been judged and found wanting.

Of course, once they examined the price tags, they understood why the assistants hadn't bothered.

The prices were astronomical.

They'd have needed to take out a second mortgage to purchase a blouse.

This prompted a discussion about Kelly Clarkson and her experience of being treated dismissively in an upscale art shop, apparently because she hadn't looked like someone with money to spend.

Mam and Tonya felt they understood the experience perfectly.

Although, in fairness to the boutique, the assistants had correctly predicted there would be no sale.

Not at those prices!

Thoroughly disenchanted, the ladies departed and made their way to another favourite shop on the route home, one where they could usually count on finding something unusual and irresistible.

Surely this place wouldn't disappoint them.

Except it was under new management.

And the wonderful, quirky merchandise that had always made the shop worth visiting had apparently vanished along with the previous owners.

Nothing.

Not one interesting thing worth buying.

By now, even Tonya's enthusiasm for shopping was beginning to falter.

As they neared home, they decided to make one final stop at their favourite coffee hub.

All they wanted was a decent, HOT latte.

Not lukewarm. Not tepid. HOT.

They went in, ready for a little consolation in a cup.

The latte machine was broken.

Of course it was.

Defeated, they returned to the vehicle and headed home.

But the day's entertainment wasn't finished.

Oh, no.

While they were driving, Tonya received a call from our youngest, aged thirteen.

Could she come and collect him from school?

Why?

Because he'd got detention.

And what, you may ask, had this young scholar done to earn such an honour?

Well, apparently he'd gone into the boys' lavatory by the gym, gathered up a quantity of paper towels, soaked them in water, added soap, rolled the whole mess into snowball-sized projectiles, and hurled them at the walls.

An inspired bit of interior decoration, if you're into the abstract school of art.

When asked what on earth possessed him to do such a thing, he offered the perfectly reasonable explanation:

"I was bored."

Ah, well. That explains everything, doesn't it?

Apparently, when boredom strikes, the natural response is to redecorate the school lavatory with soggy paper towels.

Unfortunately for our budding artist, Tonya was nowhere near the school and couldn't collect him.

He'd have to serve his detention another day.

A little later, the lad rang again.

Could he carve his pumpkin when he got home?

Tonya said yes.

Mam immediately objected.

She wasn't convinced the boy should be trusted with a sharp knife unless someone was there to supervise him.

Now, you'd think a thirteen-year-old would have mastered the rudiments of knife handling by this point, but we have the Dragon Lady to thank for his lack of experience.

Every time the boy attempts to cut his meat at the dinner table, Dragon swoops in, takes possession of his plate, and cuts it up for him.

At this rate, he'll be thirty-five years old and still waiting for someone to slice his pork chop.

So Mam's concern wasn't entirely unfounded.

By the time the ladies finally reached home, they were absolutely knackered.

They'd been looking forward to a quiet evening, perhaps a nice cup of tea and a chance to put their feet up.

Instead, they walked into the kitchen and discovered pumpkin guts everywhere.

Everywhere.

Our young Michelangelo had apparently decided that permission to carve his pumpkin included permission to turn the kitchen into the aftermath of a vegetable massacre.

Seeds, stringy orange innards, bits of pumpkin — the works.

Yup, pumpkin guts everywhere!

And to add insult to injury, he wanted Tonya to make salted pumpkin seeds.

Oh, yes.

After a long day of disappointments, what could be more relaxing than rummaging through a heap of slimy pumpkin entrails, extracting the seeds, washing them, soaking them in salt water, and roasting them in the oven?

Just the sort of peaceful evening she'd been dreaming of.

Not.

They'd barely been home five minutes when the kiddo's telephone rang.

It was Dragon. Only she called the wee one, thinking she had dialled her daughter.

Now, Dragon was in a terrible state, and this time, I must admit, she had good reason.

Two dogs next door had attacked her two Chihuahuas, leaving the poor little creatures badly injured. Her son Bruno had rushed them to the vet, and she hadn't heard anything from him.

Naturally, she was frantic with worry.

And naturally, she needed to tell Tonya every grisly detail. But she was speaking with her grandson. He finally stopped her and handed his phone to his mother.

So there stood me wife, surrounded by pumpkin guts, exhausted from her disastrous shopping expedition, listening to a blow-by-blow account of a canine bloodbath.

I suppose Dragon needed a calming voice to soothe her nerves.

Though I couldn't help wondering whether it might have been wiser to keep the phone free in case Bruno was trying to call with news from the vet.

But what do I know?

I wasn't there for any of this.

Which brings us, finally, to me.

I came home that evening blissfully unaware that our youngest had been pursuing a career in bathroom decoration.

No one had mentioned the detention to me.

Not a word.

Apparently, the plan was to wait until we were all gathered around the dinner table and then have the lad explain his artistic endeavours himself.

So there we were, sitting down to dinner, when he was instructed to tell me why he'd been given detention.

He sighed dramatically.

"Oh, do I have to go over this again? I'm not gonna."

Well, now.

That wasn't quite the response his mother had been hoping for.

Before the discussion could develop into a full-blown confrontation, his older brother decided to lend a hand.

"Your youngest child," he announced to me, "is in trouble for his interior decoration of the boys' bathroom at school."

Well, that got the lad's attention!

He was absolutely horrified at the suggestion that he might be considered an interior designer.

Apparently, being known as the boy who hurled wet, soapy paper towels at the school bathroom walls was preferable to being accused of having an interest in home décor.

So, rather than allow that terrible slander to stand, he promptly spilled the beans.

The whole ridiculous story came tumbling out.

And there you have it.

What was supposed to be a lovely autumn outing for the ladies of the house had turned into a marathon of minor calamities: freezing shops, misguided navigation, disappointing merchandise, queue-jumping Q-tips, a frightening accident, cold coffee, stale desserts, overpriced chocolate ghosts, uncooperative hostesses, uninspiring lunches, snooty boutiques, broken latte machines, a school detention, pumpkin entrails, and an emergency involving two unfortunate Chihuahuas.

All in one day.

And yet, for all the irritations, there was one thing worth remembering.

That old fellow who stepped in front of Mam at the checkout — the one she'd been so annoyed with — might very well have saved their lives simply by delaying them a minute or two.

So perhaps Mam was right. Sometimes the little inconveniences are blessings in disguise.

Mind you, I doubt she'll remember that the next time someone jumps the queue.

And as for me youngest, I've decided that if he ever gets bored again, I'll hand him a paintbrush and point him towards the garage.

At least then we might get something useful out of his artistic talents.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026. All rights reserved