Novelas y relatos de Murder Knocks Twice

“I don’t need all the adjectives. It’s weird.” “That’s why you are attuned to the beyond so wonderfully.” A deafening crash from the other room. The male twin had knocked over a mahogany curio case stuffed with antiques. Porcelain pieces and wood splinters scattered across the floor. The female twin laughed and hacked into a rosewood dining table with an axe. Jon was uncurious about all this. The revelations, the head games, and murders fully occupied his mind. “What makes you think I’m gonna help you with anything? You just committed two murders of innocent people right in front of me and for what turns out to be a fraud. Those experiences would have happened no matter what they did down th

He walked to the pastries section and bought some doughnuts, he glanced at them again and noticed they were examining knives. Suddenly he remembered that all the victims of the murders linked to the chairman of Edwin Loans, had their throats cut with a kitchen knife. He was now more than convinced that the men were planning to kill Mr. Johnson, and they would do that with their favourite weapon of death- a kitchen knife. He took the plastic bag containing the doughnuts he had just bought to the check-out counter, and paid, he walked out of the store taking one last look at the men who were still trying out blades.

Most people knock on doors with a pattern of either two short knocks and one long or two long and one short. But this person outside was different. Knock knock, knock knock, knock knock, knock, knock knock, knock— Knock knock, knock knock, knock, knock, knock knock, knock knock, knock, knock— Knock, knock—knock! Knock, knock—knock! The knocking rhythm even reminded me of a familiar childhood tune. But that didn't help with my morning grumpiness.

But it’s different now. I had come back from the grasps of death. I wasn’t afraid of anything, not anymore. With a sharp breath, I knock. The knock echoes with a dull, heavy sound. There’s strength behind the sound. And I stand there, counting five seconds inside my head before raising my fist to knock again. A second time. A third time. Something’s not right.

The knock didn't sound soft and gentle like those of the nurses, so when I heard the knock I knew who it was or rather who they were that were coming for me. There was a bit of silence before another loud knock sounded on the door. I couldn't stand up so I gently lay there until another loud knock sounded, this time it sounded angrier than the first. I hated the urgency that the noise carried. The door soon opened with a brute force and I raised my head and turned around to see two of Aiden's guards standing there with very staunch looks on their faces.

Someone knocked on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. She refused to respond to the knock. Knock. Knock. Knock The knocks came again. But she had intentions of going to open the damn door. Whoever it was could knock and get ired of doing that . After all, it was not the first time that someone had knocked on the door and got tired of doing so. If this particular person had no intention of stopping , then the person could just go ahead with the knocks till frustration took over. Then, the person would have no other choice other than to leave.

Ice cream, park benches, the sound of Thomas groaning like I was the world’s biggest headache—it had felt too normal, too easy. And normal never lasted. I knew it before the first knock. A sharp, too-perfect rap against the motel door. Three beats, a pause, three beats again. Not housekeeping. Not some lost tourist. Killers. My hand was on my blade before Thomas even stirred. “Get up,” I hissed. He blinked awake, confusion giving way to instinct. His gun was in his hand before the second knock. We didn’t answer. We didn’t move. The third knock didn’t come.

Rage slams through me, pushing away all my resolve. I have nothing on my mind except from murder. I try the door knob and it turns. Why would they leave the door unlocked? A fist comes flying towards my face and I grab it, my blade slices through the underside of the man's wrist in a matter of seconds, cutting veins and tissue. He groans and his blood splashes over my chest. I kicked the back of his knee and I put a bullet in his head. He falls to the ground in a very loud thud.

I don’t knock politely. I hammer my knuckles into the door, loud and deliberate. From inside, I hear it, his voice, sharp and irritated. “We’re busy! Piss off!” My jaw tightens. I lift my hand again and knock. This time, not random. Rhythm. Deliberate. One beat, two, a pause, then a short staccato line. A tune. Something stupid, catchy. I need to move. The door swings open fast, yanked with an annoyed grunt. Mark’s glare is immediate. “What the hell do you want—”

Just sat there, pupils huge. “What did you see?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not mine.” It was 3:21 when the knocking started again. Same pattern. Three short. One long. But this time it came from the floor. We froze. All of us. The knocks moved under us, slow. From the hallway to the kitchen. Then to the living room. Right beneath where Irene sat. He climbed onto the couch without a word. The sound stopped. The smell changed then. No more ivory.