Thud on the Threshold: The Dead Return

I knew Grandma would scold me for sneaking, but the comfort of the food pushed my worries aside for a moment. The kitchen was warm, the light golden and safe.

Suddenly, someone knocked at the gate.

The sound echoed through the house, sharp and unexpected. My fork clattered against the bowl as I set it down, heart leaping into my throat.

I put down my fork, ran out, and called, “Who’s there?”

My voice sounded thin in the night air. The gate creaked as I leaned out, peering into the shadows.

A man’s voice replied, “Is this Henry Walker’s place? I’m looking for Mr. Walker to drive.”

Another person looking for Grandpa.

I opened the gate. A very tall man stood outside.

He loomed in the moonlight, his outline jagged and strange. I could smell the earth and sweat on him, and something else—something sour and cold.

In the moonlight, I could see his face—twisted, smeared with clay, and blood on his ear like he’d taken a nasty fall.

His eyes glinted, wide and wild. The blood on his ear looked fresh, trailing down his neck and soaking into his collar. There was a deep gash above his eyebrow, and his cheek was swollen, turning purple under the porch light.

I said, “My grandpa isn’t home. He went up the back mountain to drive a truck. He’ll be back soon. You can wait in the yard.”

I tried to sound braver than I felt, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in my voice. My fingers tightened around the doorknob, ready to slam it shut if I had to.

As soon as I finished, the man’s eyes widened with anger. “Henry Walker promised to help me drive tonight! How can he back out?”

He stepped forward, voice booming. His anger rolled off him in waves, and for a moment, I thought he might break down the gate.

He was terrifying when he was mad.

His face twisted even further, lips pulled back in a snarl. I took in the size of his hands, the dirt caked under his nails, and felt a shiver run down my spine.

I took a couple steps back, heart pounding.

The porch light flickered again, shadows dancing across his face. My breath came in short, shallow bursts.

The man’s face darkened. “Forget it, I’ll wait in the yard.”

He tried to step inside, but no matter what, he couldn’t cross the threshold. “Thud... thud...”

He lifted his boot, but it hit the wooden step with a heavy, hollow sound, like he was stomping on a coffin lid. The noise sent goosebumps crawling up my arms.

My stomach clenched. Our threshold wasn’t high—anyone could step over it. But he tried again and again, still couldn’t get in.

He gritted his teeth, eyes burning. Each time he tried, it was like an invisible wall held him back. I stared at his boots, mud flaking off onto the porch, and felt a cold sweat break out on my neck.

I remembered what the old folks in town used to say: the living can cross a threshold, but the dead can’t.

Those words echoed in my head, stories told around bonfires and whispered at sleepovers. I never thought I’d see it for myself.

I backed up further.

My feet scraped against the floorboards, and I could feel the heat of the kitchen behind me—a safe haven just a few steps away.

The man kept lowering his head, trying to step over. The sound of his boots hitting the threshold grew louder: “Thud, thud, thud.”

Each thud rattled my bones. The noise was sharp, insistent, like he was trying to break through more than just wood.

I said, “My grandpa’s not home. Maybe you should come back later?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out barely above a whisper. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

He looked up, eyes full of malice. He grinned. “Kid, my legs aren’t good. Help me into the yard and I’ll give you candy.”

His smile was all teeth and no warmth. The way he said ‘candy’ made my skin crawl, like he was repeating a line he’d heard a thousand times but never meant.

He reached for me. I saw his hand—covered in blood, dirt, and rotting leaves. His nails were purple-black, like he’d clawed his way out of a grave.

The hand hovered in the air, fingers twitching. The stench of earth and decay rolled off him in waves. I gagged, stepping back even further.

The old folks always said people died on the winding road behind the mountain. Cars and people would fall to their deaths at the bottom.

Their stories came rushing back—how the mountain claimed outsiders, how some nights you could hear the cries of the dead if you listened hard enough.

Most were outsiders, and their families couldn’t afford to claim the bodies. So the corpses were left at the foot of the mountain, uncollected.

I remembered seeing old, faded posters at the gas station—missing persons, never found. My stomach twisted, thinking of those unclaimed souls.

This man made my skin crawl. He didn’t seem alive.

His eyes were too bright, his movements too stiff. I could feel a chill settle over me, colder than the night air.

I wanted to slam the gate, but his fierce, twisted eyes froze me.

I just backed away and whispered, “You come in yourself. I’ll wait for you inside.”