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There it was again. The rapping at the window in the spare room. It happens every night at the same time, without fail. At first I thought it was a practical joke. I laughed at it, recalling the fright of it to my mother over breakfast in the morning. When it happened the next night I was annoyed.

Deep in the moment of writing, I was lost in my words and the dance music that had been replaying since early in the evening. I wanted to open the window, rap a few times to scare whoever was outside interrupting my flow of creativity. I loved the house. My inspiration had peaked since my family and I had moved into the old weather board house. Nights were always the best times for writing, and usually I was the only one brave enough to be awake at such hours.

This night I decided to leave it once again, planning to give the house a look over the next day for footprints or fingerprints on the dusty window. In the morning I went outside, walking down the cracked cemented footpath to the window. There was nothing. No fingerprints, no markings, just dust. I put it down to the wind, it was the only explanation as to why the rapping had occurred, and it was an old house after all. The next night I sat huddled up and freezing, since our heater had stopped working, and I hated leaving the doors open in the hallway- It always gave me the chills, like something was watching, travelling. It was after two when I heard the sound of footsteps clomping along the wooden floorboards of the verandah.

In my bedroom my sister slept soundly, so I took the next approach at waking my mother to help investigate. We both went to the window outside my bedroom and saw no one. I told my mother about the time, and how it had been happening for the past few nights at the same time. We concluded that it was definitely some prankster, and I decided I was far too disturbed to continue writing.

In the morning I took another look, this time at the verandah out the porch, in search for footprints. To my awe there were none. The gate was closed, and my dog showed no signs of discomfort when I put him on the verandah for a sniff.

The following night I decided to go to sleep. I didn't want to be awake when it happened again, but much to my disappointment the sound of boots on the verandah woke me up. I switched on the lamp, my heart racing violently. I decided then to face my fears, and look out the window to see who was making these late night visits. I looked out the lace curtains to see no one. In the short distance I followed the footpath to the front gate which was opened slightly. Then I heard it, the rapping at the window. I threw back my blankets, running to my mother's bedroom. It didn't take long for me to wake her up, but the hair was rising on the back of my neck, and an overwhelming sensation of fear sank deep within me. By the time my mother and I reached the study the rapping had stopped. I checked the window, making sure the windows were closed. To my horror they were closed shut. There was no wind, and across the garden, and through the trees the gate was still open.