The Three Knocks

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Abstract

y mother was perfectly happy to stay distracted until my father returned — this ignorance being true bliss , before a third, and loudest knock shattered her calm. Mam switched off the television, and sat still for a now very nervous moment, before she finally braved the kitchen again. And so she stood in there, staring at the back door for what seemed like forever . . . before my dad suddenly walked in from the living room, now home from work. He asked my mother what was wrong, and so, she told him about the three knocks.Dad joked about the incident at first, but seeing my mother’s grim face, he then unlocked the back door and went outside with a flashlight. But my father never found anyone hiding in the small back garden, unless they had climbed over the garden shed, and then fled into the dark, open ground that lay behind our new estate at the time. So satisfied that all seemed well, Dad came back inside — though checked the back door was firmly locked behind him — and then my parents went to bed. And there were no more nocturnal knocks after that, or at least, none that a sleeping household could hear.A week went by, and Mam found herself chatting with a neighbor of ours, who lived two houses down

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. The conversation was happy at first, until Joan suddenly broke down, and declared that her ailing father had passed away a few days before. With my mother consoling her, Joan (now sadly deceased herself) then mentioned how she would miss her father’s regular visits. For the old man had always come around to his daughter’s side door — which led into her kitchen — rather than the front door, as had been his custom, and had then announced his presence with three, sharp knocks.My mother told me this story many years after the fact, and just when I was getting into ghost stories, and so it never fails to make me shiver. I’ve also since learned that three knocks signals an impending death in Irish folklore (besides the more well-known bean sídhe, better know as <a href="https://emboyle.medium.com/my-haunted-imagination-cf660664d632?source=your_stories_page-------------------------------------">the banshee</a>). This tale is the second of my own personal/family ghost stories, and to read the first one, ‘In A Park After Dark’, please click <a href="https://readmedium.com/in-a-park-after-dark-4d4770b9c112?source=your_stories_page-------------------------------------">here</a>. Thanks for reading.</article></body>

Another personal ghost story of mine

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This story happened one night in 1977, or possibly 1978, and to my mother, although I was there too; as a sleeping toddler, along with my baby sister. My father had been away at the time — working the night shift in Dublin city — whilst my mother was at home, minding her two children.

Mam had been sitting down, watching television around eleven pm, when she suddenly heard a slightly distant, if definite knock. Waiting a chilly moment, Mam then got up and went into the adjacent kitchen. She switched on the ceiling light, but quickly saw nothing out of the ordinary . . . and was about to leave, before a second knock immediately drew her eyes to the house’s back door; its frosted glass black from the darkness beyond. So Mam stood there for a few frozen seconds, not knowing what to do (or able to call anyone, as we had no house phone at the time), before she hurried back to the living room, and turned the television’s volume up.

My mother was perfectly happy to stay distracted until my father returned — this ignorance being true bliss , before a third, and loudest knock shattered her calm. Mam switched off the television, and sat still for a now very nervous moment, before she finally braved the kitchen again. And so she stood in there, staring at the back door for what seemed like forever . . . before my dad suddenly walked in from the living room, now home from work. He asked my mother what was wrong, and so, she told him about the three knocks.

Dad joked about the incident at first, but seeing my mother’s grim face, he then unlocked the back door and went outside with a flashlight. But my father never found anyone hiding in the small back garden, unless they had climbed over the garden shed, and then fled into the dark, open ground that lay behind our new estate at the time. So satisfied that all seemed well, Dad came back inside — though checked the back door was firmly locked behind him — and then my parents went to bed. And there were no more nocturnal knocks after that, or at least, none that a sleeping household could hear.

A week went by, and Mam found herself chatting with a neighbor of ours, who lived two houses down. The conversation was happy at first, until Joan suddenly broke down, and declared that her ailing father had passed away a few days before. With my mother consoling her, Joan (now sadly deceased herself) then mentioned how she would miss her father’s regular visits. For the old man had always come around to his daughter’s side door — which led into her kitchen — rather than the front door, as had been his custom, and had then announced his presence with three, sharp knocks.

My mother told me this story many years after the fact, and just when I was getting into ghost stories, and so it never fails to make me shiver. I’ve also since learned that three knocks signals an impending death in Irish folklore (besides the more well-known bean sídhe, better know as the banshee). This tale is the second of my own personal/family ghost stories, and to read the first one, ‘In A Park After Dark’, please click here. Thanks for reading.