I'm the one knocking now. Knocking on wood. Knocking on my own head. Knocking on my son's door to check if he's still human.
He doesn't knock anymore. He doesn't have to.
That night, the closet door didn't close all the way. Around 3:17 AM, I heard knuckles dragging down the hallway wall. Not knocking. Dragging. Long, slow, like something with too many fingers was learning the shape of our home. Babadook
The first page was harmless. A nursery rhyme about a mother and her boy. But when you turned to the second spread, the letters tilted. The paper felt rough, like scabs. If it's in a word, or in a look You can't get rid of the Babadook. I laughed. Tried to.
I heard him whisper: "You invited me."
I don't sleep anymore. My son draws him now. Same top hat. Same skeletal grin. Same long coat that moves even when the air is still.
The book is gone. But I hear him in the walls. I'm the one knocking now
I checked the book. It was back on the shelf. I swear I threw it in the trash.
Not the kind you buy at a fair. This one was wrapped in gray twine, left on the porch in the rain. No note. No return address. My son found it first. Said it smelled like "old basement and medicine." Knocking on my son's door to check if he's still human