November 23, 2025

They heard it every night at 11:11. Three distinct knocks on the barn door—measured, heavy, polite in a way that made it all the more terrifying.

It had started on the Monday after the first frost. Tommy McCrae, the youngest on the farm, swore he heard it while checking on the sheep. No one believed him until the third night, when all five family members stood by the window and listened. Three knocks. Pause. Silence.

They’d fling open the barn doors, flashlights swinging like sabers through the shadows. Nothing. No footprints in the frost. No broken fence posts. No missing animals. Just that strange emptiness, like the earth was holding its breath.

Then the hens stopped laying. The milk turned sour overnight. The dogs howled at corners.

It wasn’t until Sunday that something actually was missing—Uncle Ray. He’d gone out to the barn alone with a flask of rye and a shotgun, muttering about “settling things.” They found the shotgun on the floor, two shells unfired, the barn door still latched from the inside.

That night, the knocks came again. Three. Same time.

They called in preachers. They called in a paranormal group from Albany who wanted to livestream the knocks. The camera froze every time. Only the sound came through: Three wooden raps. Each louder than the last.

Years passed. No one used the barn anymore. They planted thornbushes in front of the doors, nailed crosses to the beams, and sealed the loft.

But on November 23, 2025, a traveling photographer named Nia passed through the village. She asked why there were no barns in use, and why the locals got twitchy around 11 p.m. She camped on the property that night, camera ready, curious and skeptical.

She posted the audio clip the next day: “Three knocks. Clear as day. But something else is missing… I can’t remember leaving the barn.”

That was the last anyone saw of her.

Now, every year, someone knocks. And something—or someone—goes missing.