The Phantom Knock

The rhythmic *knock, knock, knock* began as a whisper, a tentative tap against the flimsy partition of Room 143. Stephen froze, the bourbon glass halfway to his lips, the syrupy liquid sloshing precariously. His heart, a frantic bird trapped in his chest, hammered against his ribs. Who would be knocking? The manager? A ghost? The police? Each possibility sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. His paranoia, a constant companion these past days, flared, painting the cheap wood of the door with imagined threats.

He sank back into the shadows of the room, the Colt 1911, heavy and cold, a familiar weight in his trembling hand. His eyes, red-rimmed and wild, darted to the door, anticipating the splintering crack, the sudden intrusion of the outside world. The knocking persisted, a maddening, insistent beat that seemed to pulse in time with the erratic thrum of his own blood. *Knock. Knock. Knock.* It was a percussive assault on his already frayed nerves, a maddening symphony of uncertainty. Was it real? Or was it another figment conjured by the meth, a phantom manifestation of his deepest fears? The not knowing was a new kind of torture, a gnawing dread that burrowed deeper than any physical pain.

He strained his ears, trying to decipher the subtle nuances of the sound. It wasn't the hurried, apologetic rap of a guest. Nor was it the sharp, authoritative rap of law enforcement. It was… measured. Deliberate. Almost patient. But with an undercurrent of something else, something that prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. It was the sound of someone who knew he was there, someone who was waiting. And that was far more terrifying than a sudden, violent entry.