Who Is Tapping on My Window Lattice

Panic licked at his sanity; his trembling hand could barely hold onto the flat, white-glowing box.

From the tactile feel to the shape, and even the fluorescence, it was molded into a form Kraft was familiar with. Yet, it felt profoundly alien; only the hollow shell had been mimicked, and the void within could only provide a white light insufficient to illuminate his surroundings.

Kraft flipped the glowing face down onto the floor and kicked it away. With a faint scraping sound, the strange object—which looked remarkably like a phone—slid toward the wall, emitting a low, crisp "clack."

The only light source left in the room was a sliver of moonlight.

He retreated slowly, his hands behind him, pressing against the rough, cold wall. His brain raced, trying to figure out what exactly he had been holding and why it had appeared here.

This was the essence of a familiar yet alien object; the familiar parts only made the item seem more abnormal. It possessed a similar form but was, in reality, something entirely different, as if it had been shoddily crafted due to limited capabilities.

The presence of this look-alike, which had no business being there, filled Kraft with a sense of profound unreality. Suspicion sprouted, and he began to deny the authenticity of the scene.

He felt he must be in some bizarre dream, aware of his predicament yet unable to wake, temporarily trapped in an illusion. But the sensations were so real—the gritty texture of the wall, the sounds he heard—every detail was rich and full.

The move to kick that thing away was too reckless, Kraft thought. In an unfamiliar situation, one should remain quiet.

This was part of his grandfather's teachings. The abnormal shock had disrupted his proper rhythm; he should have been more careful.

However, the situation wasn't entirely dire. He had forgotten to unbuckle his scabbard when he lay down on the bed, so his most trusted weapon was still by his side.

With his left hand pressing against the metal buckle and his back to the wall, Kraft moved silently toward the door. A location that allowed for rapid movement and the creation of obstacles was something to prioritize in any scenario.

His outstretched right hand was the first to touch the door bolt. Its position hadn't changed. If an accident occurred, the best choice when everything was unknown was always to open the door and run.

His vision gradually adapted to the environment. The cells on his retina needed time to switch to scotopic vision, transitioning from the detailed images under bright light to a mode that was less clear but adapted to dim surroundings.

The outlines of the table, chairs, and wooden bed emerged. The room seemed unchanged; there was no cliché "strange ceiling" plot twist here.

It was just too quiet—so quiet that Kraft could hear his own heart drumming and his deliberately suppressed, slowed breathing. Blood, carrying oxygen, surged through his body, awakening his powerful motor system to deal with the unknown threat lurking within the anomaly.

Logically, even in the dead of night, there should be sounds from other rooms not suitable for all ages, or the night-watchman landlord downstairs shifting furniture.

If Old Wood were here, he would surely lower his voice and, in his signature deep tone used for telling ghost stories, say, "The dead don't make a sound..."

Kraft was long past the age of being frightened by a silent night, but thinking about it all still made his skin crawl. The strange item that had suddenly appeared on him and the unnervingly quiet inn were practically screaming that something was terribly wrong.

After gripping the door bolt, he ceased all movement, smoothing out his heartbeat and breathing on the spot, waiting for whatever person or thing hidden in the darkness and silence to reveal a flaw.

Patience—this was an important lesson Kraft had learned during his military training. Trading time for one's life was never a losing deal.

In the silent darkness, responding to silence with silence was an instinct etched into his genes, stemming from grotesque tales of ancient ancestors who vanished into the dark. It was a human reflex to remain quiet when it was quiet.

He waited, his nerves taut, his keen senses scanning for endless information. His sense of time was deceived; it was difficult to judge the difference between a few seconds and a few minutes in the stillness.

After a long wait—or perhaps it had only been a short while—he noticed the moonlight on the floor was different than before. That sliver of white light had become brighter and was stretching across the floor. At first, it had been some distance from the bed, but now it had reached the foot of the bed.

It seemed the light source was adjusting its position, approaching his window, slowly and firmly drawing near.

[That is not the moon.]

His consciousness stirred, revealing the essence of the light source.

[You have seen it before.]

That pale, gentle radiance was approaching softly. Without careful observation, one could not detect the extent of its movement, lulling one into a false sense of peace.

Kraft slowly pulled the door bolt back with his right hand; he could not stay in this room any longer.

The light continued to intensify, passing through the gaps. The wisps of white light on the floor widened, turning from faint lines into a band of light, becoming almost blindingly bright on the floorboards.

Yet, that soft, gentle feeling stubbornly persisted, like a camouflage pelt that could not be shed, unable to change with the passing of the seasons, appearing in every situation with jarring inappropriateness.

The bolt was fully withdrawn. Kraft felt for the door handle and, with the utmost caution, pulled the door inward bit by bit.

The light source was closer now. As it reached its peak brightness, a slight creaking sound rang out. The leaking light flickered and shifted; something was applying force from the outside, causing the thin wooden planks to deform.

However, the window was latched from the inside and opened outward.

Kraft had already pried the door open just enough to squeeze through. He turned sideways and pushed out into the hallway. He needed to relocate to the first floor; there was more room to maneuver there, and the scattered tables and chairs would favor someone agile.

His body slipped nimbly through the gap without making a sound. Before leaving, he took one last look at the window. The light source was still outside, its position unchanged.

"Knock, knock."

A rhythmic tapping sounded from outside the window. Just listening to the sound, one might think it was a polite visitor. The gentle, courteous force reminded Kraft of Romeo visiting Juliet in the middle of the night. It was restrained yet hoping to attract attention, enough to make one feel a sense of trust.

Yet, this was the second floor. Only a victim with a muddled, half-dreaming brain would respond to a visitor outside the window.

Kraft slipped the door bolt into his pocket. This piece of hardwood had some heft to it; it would be perfect for making contact with an annoying fellow at high speed.

"Knock, knock, knock!" Another round of tapping followed, becoming more urgent.

Kraft pulled the door shut and retreated toward the stairs. He hadn't yet figured out how to cross that section of loose floorboards without making a sound.

A teeth-grinding creak came from the room—likely the window—as something applied force to it. He could imagine the thin wood bending, on the verge of snapping.

The patience of the thing clinging to the outer wall was far less than Kraft's. This was good news; it meant it acted more on instinct rather than possessing human-like intelligence, perhaps even less than some of the cunning beasts in the forest.

As he retreated to the top of the stairs, the sound of crushing deformation was suddenly joined by the explosive crack of wood fibers snapping. Splinters sprayed, hitting the ajar door and rolling across the floor.

It had chosen to gradually increase its force to crush the whole thing rather than repeatedly ramming it. This counter-intuitive mode of movement led Kraft to suspect it didn't possess anything like a mammalian musculoskeletal system.

The sounds indicated the force was still increasing. More explosive cracks rang out, and the fragile window frame was torn entirely from the wall and smashed to the ground.

A fine, noisy sound filled the air. It was no longer the sound of crushing wood, but a familiar yet unrecognizable low moan, produced by the vibration of unknown vocal organs, echoing through the space.

White light spilled out from the door gap. It had entered Kraft's room through the window, emitting a sound like viscous paste being slapped against a wall. It was less like entering and more like something soft and gooey being poured inside.

The disgusting sound was like a bucket of putrid, soft-bodied seafood, its own rotting tentacles reaching out to slap against the bucket walls, mixing with indistinct whispers while simultaneously radiating an incomprehensible temptation that struck directly at the mind.

Kraft bit the tip of his tongue, enduring the nauseating urge to vomit, and gripped the railing to retreat downward. He hoped it wouldn't realize it could open the door just yet.

The first floor, where the brazier was usually lit, was pitch black, and the night watchman was nowhere to be found; he could only step lightly on the wooden stairs, leaning most of his weight against the banister to prevent any loose boards from emitting a harsh creak.

These dozen or so steps had never been so agonizing; he had to use every footwork technique he had ever learned to ensure speed while remaining silent, avoiding drawing its attention.

The light flickering through the door gap shifted constantly; the light source was pacing inside the room.

His consciousness used the gathered auditory information to sketch it as a massive, soft-bodied creature, the slime on its surface muffling the friction of its movements, with soft, mobile organs assisting it in crawling along flat surfaces.

Something sharp was scraping against the floor—it could be wood shavings, or perhaps the fangs of a predatory organ embedded within its contracting, writhing tissue.

Kraft did not know how it had found him; perhaps he had been marked during his shallow dreams in the Salt Tide District during the day, and it had come silently to his window at night.

Had it entered the realm of reality, or was he being hunted in a dream from which he could not wake? He bit down hard, the pain from his tongue tip reaching him, yet he could not distinguish truth from falsehood.

There were nineteen steps in total; Kraft counted down in his mind, with only two steps left to go. Once he was away from the dangerous second floor and reached the first, he could hide in the kitchen or escape through the front door.

His body, having mastered the technique, skillfully leaned backward; the last two steps were not high, and according to his memory, he could step directly onto the floor in one motion.

A sense of resistance came from the soles of his feet; it was not the floor he had expected, but a layer of liquid. A cold, flowing sensation traveled up from his feet, seeping through the seams of his boots.

Kraft realized he had stepped into knee-deep water, but it was already too late. The delicate balance was broken, and even with his equilibrium, he stumbled back two steps in the water before steadying himself, splashes hitting his face.

The sound of the water was clearly audible.

After two seconds of silence, the sound of crushing and snapping erupted instantly from the second floor.

Kraft turned and ran.