Knocking at Your Door

 Hello All:

Happy Halloween! 

Usually on Saturdays we offer videos. But it's Halloween and we can't close the holiday without a spooky story.

Today's work was inspired by something I used to imagine when I was a little boy. I would imagine going up to people's doors in a Grim Reaper costume while banging on the door with an axe. While doing this, I would sing a song, "Knocking at your door..."

Knocking at Your Door

The night was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the distant hum of Halloween’s last echoes. The streets, once alive with laughter and the jingle of candy wrappers, now lay quiet under the pale glow of a waning moon. That’s when he appeared—a shadow slipping between the flickering porch lights, his black robes whispering against the pavement.

The Grim Reaper carried his axe with practiced ease, the blade glinting dully in the streetlamps. His song was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried through the still air:

"Knocking at your door…"

He banged the axe against the first door—a sharp thud—and the wood shuddered. Then another, and another, moving down the street like a secter of mischief. Some doors flew open, voices rising in outrage. Others stayed shut, the occupants too wise—or too tired—to confront the night’s intruder.

But the Reaper didn’t stop. He moved with eerie precision, his steps unhurried, his song never wavering. By the time the police arrived, the calls flooding in about a "madman with an axe," the Reaper was long gone. The only traces left behind were the splintered doors, the axe marks like jagged smiles in the wood, and the Ring doorbell footage—grainy, shadowy, but undeniable.

Detective Mara Cole studied the videos, her brow furrowed. "He’s not just walking," she muttered. "He’s *leading* us somewhere."

Then she noticed it—the way the Reaper’s path curved, not randomly, but toward the old abandoned church on the edge of town. The one with the broken steeple and the graveyard where the headstones leaned like drunkards.

That night, Mara and a few officers approached the church, flashlights cutting through the dark. The air smelled of damp earth and something older—something that didn’t belong in a modern town. Then they saw it: a narrow gap in the fence, just wide enough for a man in a robe to slip through.

Inside, the graveyard was still. Too still.

Mara’s light flickered over the tombstones, then froze on one that wasn’t quite right. The name was worn away, but the date was clear: 1893. And beneath it, the earth looked… disturbed.

She knelt, brushing away the dirt. Her fingers hit something solid—a wooden handle. She pulled, and the ground gave way with a groan, revealing a hidden staircase descending into darkness.

The officers hesitated, but Mara didn’t. She descended, her heart pounding. The stairs were narrow, the air thick with the scent of old bones and candle wax. At the bottom, a single lantern flickered, casting long shadows.

And there, standing in the center of a circle of candles, was the Grim Reaper.

But he wasn’t singing anymore.

He turned slowly, his skeletal mask gleaming in the dim light. "You found me," he said, his voice oddly cheerful. "Took you long enough."

Mara raised her gun. "Freeze! You’re under arrest for trespassing, destruction of property—"

The Reaper chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering. "Oh, Detective. You don’t understand." He gestured to the walls around them—carved with names, dates, and symbols. "This isn’t my first time."

Then the candles snuffed out all at once, plunging them into darkness.

When the lights came back on, the Grim Reaper was gone.

And so was the staircase.

The next morning, the town woke to find the church’s fence mended, the graveyard undisturbed. The only clue? A single black feather, caught on a thornbush, fluttering in the wind.

And if you listen closely on Halloween night, when the moon is high and the streets are empty, you might just hear it again:

"Knocking at your door…"