28 Oct People Knob

The dive bar bathroom smelled like a mix of beer-soaked wood and overused cleaning chemicals that couldn’t quite mask the underlying stench. I leaned against the chipped sink, scrolling through my phone, killing time while waiting for my turn to use the stall. That’s when I noticed it.

It was scratched into the wall beside the mirror in jagged, uneven letters: “People Knob,” followed by a phone number. The handwriting was chaotic, like it had been carved in a hurry, but the words were oddly precise.

I chuckled under my breath. Drunken graffiti was a staple of places like this, but this one had a strange charm.

I snapped a picture of it and sent it to the group chat I had with my friends, captioning it: “Found some quality poetry tonight.”

The replies were instant: “What does it even mean?” “Drunk people are wild.” “Bet it’s a sex line. Call it, Peter.”

I laughed and tucked my phone back in my pocket. Yeah, no thanks. I had no interest in whatever prank or scam waited on the other end of that number. It was probably a hotline for weirdos who got off on creeping out random people.

When I finally got home later that night, I looked at the picture again. “People Knob.” What a bizarre phrase. Who even thinks to write something like that?

* * * * * *

A week later, I saw it again.

This time, it was at a trendy café downtown. I was washing my hands in their sleek, modern bathroom, the kind with motion-sensor everything, when I spotted it etched faintly into the metal edge of the paper towel dispenser. The same sloppy handwriting, and the same phone number.

I froze, staring at it. The déjà vu hit me hard. My brain tried to rationalize it. Maybe the same prankster had been here. Maybe it was some urban scavenger hunt or guerrilla marketing campaign.

But why “People Knob”? It wasn’t clever or catchy. It was just… weird.

I shook it off and returned to my table, but the encounter stuck with me.

Over the next week, I saw the phrase in more places. A park bench near my office. A bus stop on my commute. Once, even scratched faintly into the wood of a restaurant booth where I was having dinner with coworkers. The graffiti definitely wasn’t confined to seedy places—and it was spreading.

At first, I ignored it. That is, until I started to feel like it was following me.

* * * * * *

Two weeks after my first encounter, I decided to give in to curiosity.

I was at home, scrolling through my photos, when I came across the picture I’d taken in the dive bar. My thumb hovered over the phone number. Rationally, I knew better. Calling random numbers scrawled on bathroom walls wasn’t something normal people did. But the sheer repetition of it had me on edge. What was it? A joke? A secret? Or something else entirely?

I reasoned with myself that it was probably some bored teenager having fun. I’d call, laugh at the nonsense, and put this whole thing to rest.

Before I could second-guess myself, I hit the call button.

The line connected, but no one spoke.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, and then there were… sounds.

Sloshing. Gurgling. Wet, visceral noises that made my skin crawl. I blinked, confused. Was it a bad connection? Some kind of strange audio file? I’d hardly had time to consider all the possibilities when, faintly, in the background, I heard what sounded like muffled screaming.

My stomach turned. I gripped the phone tighter, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. The sounds weren’t static. They were deliberate and organic. Whatever was happening on the other end of the line was deeply wrong—and sounded very, very real.

“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking slightly.

No answer. Just the wet, squelching noises and tortured screams.

I hung up, my heart racing.

For a few minutes, I just sat there, staring at my phone, trying to process what had just happened. Maybe it was a prank—some kind of sick joke. But the screams, they sounded genuine.

I tried not to think about it. I shoved my phone into my pocket, turned on the TV, and drowned the memory in sitcom reruns.

I barely had time to relax when my phone buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I peered at my screen and swallowed hard. I gasped when I realized it was the same number. The one I had just called—and it was calling me back.

Against my better judgment, I answered, my hands trembling slightly.

The same noises poured into my ear: slurping and squelching, and now, accompanying it, a bizarre mechanical whirring. It sounded something like a grinder or a machine chewing through something. Beyond the din, I heard more screaming, this time louder and more desperate.

“Who is this?!” I shouted, panic overtaking me.

I received no response, but it was clear now that someone on the other line was listening. I could hear them breathing—heavy, labored inhalations that filled the silence between the grotesque sounds.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m calling the police, you sick freak!” I yelled, smashing the “end call” button.

I blocked the number and tossed the phone onto the couch.

That night, for the first time in years, I double-checked that all my doors and windows were locked.

* * * * * *

I didn’t sleep. Even after making sure that the locks on my doors and windows were functional, I didn’t feel safe. Instead, I felt like I was being watched. I had no reason to believe that the owner of the number knew where I lived, and yet, I couldn’t relax. The call had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. Those sounds—wet, organic, and punctuated by screaming—played on repeat in my mind. I told myself again it was a harmless prank meant to freak me out—but my gut told me otherwise.

The next morning, still groggy from lack of sleep, I decided to report the calls. It felt ridiculous walking into the police station to explain what had happened, but it seemed like the right thing to do, under the circumstances. I’d spent the drive there rehearsing what I’d say, trying to make it sound as normal as possible.

The desk officer looked unimpressed as I laid it all out. “You called a number scratched on a bathroom wall, and they… made noises at you?” He quirked an eyebrow.

I cleared my throat. “It wasn’t just noises. It sounded like someone was screaming. And there was this… machine sound. It wasn’t normal.”

The officer leaned back in his chair, stifling a yawn. “Look, unless they threatened you or you’ve got proof of a crime, there’s not much we can do. Probably just some pervert having a laugh. Block the number and move on.”

I felt a spark of irritation flare. “So, if this person is hurting someone—like the screaming I heard—you’re just going to ignore it?”

He gave me a look that said he was done humoring me. “We get weird calls reported all the time. If it happens again, record it and bring that in. But for now, I suggest you let it go.”

I walked out of the station, fuming. Let it go? Sure, I’d just forget the horrifying sounds and the way my stomach dropped when the number called back. The cops clearly weren’t going to help.

That night, my friends and I decided to hit up a new bar downtown. I figured a few drinks and some good company would be enough to distract me from the unsettling events of the past few days. By the time we arrived, I was already a couple of beers in, feeling the edge of my anxiety dull.

The place was crowded and lively, with dim lighting and music loud enough to vibrate the walls. My friends and I grabbed a corner booth, ordering drinks and shouting over the noise to catch up on everyone’s week.

“Still freaked out about that creepy phone call?” my friend Kyle asked, leaning across the table.

I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. “Blocked the number. Haven’t heard anything since.”

“See?” he said with a grin. “Problem solved. You just gotta quit being such a magnet for weird stuff.”

I forced a laugh, but my unease lingered.

After a while, the drinks caught up to me, and I excused myself to find the bathroom. The hallway leading there was narrow and lined with framed vintage posters. The bathroom itself was what you’d expect—grimy tile, flickering fluorescent lights, and a stall door that didn’t quite close all the way.

I stepped into the stall and sighed, leaning against the wall as I did my business. That’s when I heard it.

Someone entered the stall next to mine, their footsteps heavy. There was something unusual about the way they moved, accompanied by a dragging sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Then came the noises. Wet, slurping sounds, like someone sucking the marrow from a bone. My chest tightened as I recognized the sounds from the phone calls. What were the odds?

I froze, straining to hear. I had to be sure.

As I listened, the noises grew louder and more grotesque. A faint, rhythmic gulping, like something viscous being stirred and then swallowed.

I couldn’t breathe. My mind raced with panic, screaming at me to get out. I zipped up and stumbled out of the stall, barely registering the flickering lights overhead.

I burst back into the main bar area, overwhelmed by the urge to flee the building. I didn’t care if I sounded insane. “Guys!” I said, grabbing Kyle’s arm. “Someone’s in the bathroom! It’s… it’s the same thing from the calls.”

My friends exchanged glances, clearly skeptical. “What are you talking about?” Kyle asked, frowning.

“I’m not joking!” I hissed. “Just—just come look!”

They followed me, laughing nervously as we made our way back to the bathroom. I pushed open the door, fully expecting to see someone—or something—waiting inside.

It was empty. The bathroom was empty. There were no dragging footsteps and no wet noises, just the faint hum of flickering fluorescent lights—and me, looking like an absolute fool.

My friends groaned in frustration. “Dude, you’ve had way too much to drink,” Kyle said, shaking his head.

“Wait!” I said, pointing to the stall I’d been in. The words “People Knob” were freshly etched into the metal door, the jagged letters standing out starkly against the smoothly polished surface.

“What the hell?” one of my friends muttered, leaning in for a closer look.

Kyle snorted. “So someone’s been tagging bathrooms. Big deal.”

“It wasn’t here when I walked in!” I snapped, my voice rising. “I swear to God, something’s going on!”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s see how funny this ‘pervert’ thinks they are.” He whipped out his phone and dialed the number before I could stop him.

“No! What are you doing, Kyle?” I shouted. “Are you crazy?” I grabbed for his phone, but he held it out of reach. “You don’t get it—now they’ll have your number too!”

Kyle laughed. “Relax, man. They’re probably some loser, living in their mom’s basement. I’ll give ‘em a piece of my mind.”

He held the phone to his ear. A moment later, we heard the line connect—and then his grin faded. His expression shifted from amused to confused, then to something else entirely. Fear.

“What is it, Kyle?” I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.

His voice was barely a whisper. “They… they want to talk to you, Peter.”

* * * * * *

I didn’t speak to Kyle for the rest of the night. I barely even said goodbye to my friends as I bolted out of the bar. The words “they want to talk to you” played on a loop in my head, growing louder with each repetition until I felt like my skull would split.

The streets blurred past me as I power-walked toward home, sweat slicking my palms. The city lights offered no comfort. Each shadow, every passing stranger, felt sinister.

When I reached my apartment building, I froze at the sight of my door.

It was ajar.

I stood there for a moment, rooted in place. Had I forgotten to lock it? No, I remembered doing it before I left. My gut twisted as I opened the door, wincing at the creak of the hinges.

The living room looked normal—too normal. My laptop was still on the coffee table, the half-empty bag of chips from earlier in the day untouched. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet the air felt heavy.

Grabbing the largest kitchen knife I owned, I began a slow, deliberate sweep of the apartment. My breath caught in my throat as I checked the closets, under the bed, and behind the shower curtain. Everything was as it should be.

Everything, that is, except the bathroom.

When I turned the light on, I nearly dropped the knife.

There it was—“People Knob”—scratched into the tile above the sink, the same message that had haunted me for days. The jagged letters glared back at me, meticulously scrawled in identical handwriting.

I stumbled back. This wasn’t just a prank. Someone had been in my apartment—someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

I didn’t waste another second. I bolted out of the building, knife still in hand, and called my best friend, Jake, begging to crash on his couch for the night.

Jake didn’t ask many questions. He’d always been the kind of guy who didn’t pry, which was one of the reasons I trusted him. I gave him the short version—someone had broken into my apartment and left a creepy message. He nodded grimly, offering me a blanket and a beer.

The next morning, after calling my landlord and leaving them a voicemail explaining why I was leaving, I packed a bag and drove to my parents’ house. I couldn’t face going back to the apartment, not yet. My mom fussed over me the way she always did, offering coffee and concerned questions. My dad was quieter, his frown deep and contemplative as I explained the situation.

“This some kind of stalker, you think?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The police didn’t take it seriously the first time, and now…” I trailed off, unsure of how to explain the gravity of what had happened.

My parents did their best to make me feel secure. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again. The isolation of the house—the way it sat back from the road, surrounded by tall trees—felt like a buffer between me and whatever was happening.

By the second night, I even managed to sleep.

The illusion of safety didn’t last.

It was my mom’s cell phone that rang first. We were sitting in the kitchen, sipping coffee and talking about mundane things, when she picked it up.

Her face clouded with confusion as she looked at the screen. “It’s for you,” she said, holding the phone out to me.

I stared at her, my blood turning to ice. “What do you mean, it’s for me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I just… feel like it’s meant for you.”

My hands shook as I took the phone from her. “Hello?”

The line was silent for a moment. Then, the familiar noises began. Slurping, squelching, and the faint hum of a machine grinding in the background. Farther back, quiet but still audible, were the muffled screams.

I hung up immediately, my chest heaving. The phone dropped from my hand onto the kitchen table.

“What is it?” my mom asked, alarmed.

“It’s them,” I whispered. “They… they followed me here.”

After that, I knew I couldn’t stay at my parents’ house any longer. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to stop. It didn’t matter where I went—and the last thing I wanted was for my parents to get involved, or worse, hurt.

My landlord called me back the next day, promising to change the locks and install security cameras. The police assured me they’d patrol the area. Reluctantly, I agreed to return to the apartment.

When I arrived, the building seemed quieter than usual. My neighbors’ doors were all shut tight, and the hallways were silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights.

I unlocked the door, half-expecting the graffiti to still be on the bathroom wall, but everything looked pristine. The landlord had done a thorough job cleaning up. I spotted several new cameras on the way in. Everything looked good, so far.

I let out a shaky breath and dropped my bag onto the couch. For the first time in days, I felt a sliver of hope. Maybe it was over. Maybe I could start piecing my life back together.

Then I noticed a voicemail notification on my phone.

It was from my landlord, timestamped about thirty minutes before I arrived. Somehow I had missed it.

I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear.

“Peter, it’s Jim,” the message began, his voice trembling. “Listen, I was reviewing the security footage from the night of the break-in, and… look, I don’t know how to say this, but whatever went into your apartment that night—it never left. It’s still in there. I’m on my way with the police. Don’t go inside. Whatever you do, don’t—”

The message cut off.

I stood there, frozen. Jim’s message hadn’t even had time to register yet by the time a sound reached me from the bedroom.

It was faint at first, but as I listened, it grew louder. A wet, scraping noise, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps.

They were getting closer.

I didn’t even grab my bag. I bolted out the door and sprinted down the street. I didn’t stop running until I was blocks away and my legs gave out.

My lungs felt as if they were on fire by the time I collapsed on a bench near a 24-hour diner. I gulped down air, glancing over my shoulder like a hunted animal. Every shadow on the sidewalk, every car passing by, felt like a threat.

Jim’s voicemail replayed in my mind, his panicked words echoing over the sound of those dragging footsteps. Whatever went into my apartment that night—it never left.

I never went back to my apartment again.

By the time my landlord and the police arrived, I was already gone, sitting in Jake’s living room, shaking as I tried to explain what had happened. Jake didn’t interrupt, and for once, he didn’t even crack a joke. When I finished, he sat in stunned silence.

“Man… you’re not going back there, are you?” he finally asked.

I shook my head vehemently. “No. I’m done. I’m not going back, not when he—it—knows where I live.”

And I meant it. Whatever I left behind—clothes, furniture, even my laptop—it wasn’t worth my trouble, or my life.

Jake offered to let me crash at his place for a while, but I knew that wasn’t an option. I didn’t want whatever it was to follow me there, too.

I spent the next week at a cheap motel on the edge of town, paying in cash and keeping my phone turned off except to check for updates from the landlord and the cops. Each night, I triple-checked the locks on the door and windows, slept with the lights on, and tucked a knife under my pillow.

The landlord called twice. The first time, he left a voicemail saying the apartment was empty when they arrived. According to him, there was no sign of forced entry. No signs of anyone—or anything—inside. I couldn’t help but scoff.

The second time, he didn’t leave a message.

* * * * * *

I left town the following weekend. I packed what little I could fit into my car and drove until the city was a distant memory.

I settled in a small town a few states away, a quiet place where nobody knew my name. I found a job at a local hardware store and rented a modest room above an elderly couple’s garage. For a while, I began to believe I could move on.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, the damage was already done.

I still see it sometimes.

Not the thing itself—thank God—but the aftermath. Little signs that remind me that it’s still out there. A phrase scrawled on a wall in an unfamiliar handwriting. A phone number scratched into the edge of a table at a diner.

Once, I swore I caught a glimpse of the words “People Knob” on a sticky note stuck to the inside of a bus shelter.

I never take the bus anymore.

Perhaps I’m just lucky, but the calls have stopped. I changed my number, disconnected my old phone, and started over with a new device. And so far, I’ve managed to avoid any strange voicemails or late-night calls.

The fear, however, still lingers.

The nightmares are the worst.

In them, I’m back in my old apartment. The walls are covered in the words “People Knob,” carved so deeply that the plaster is flaking off. Wet, gurgling sounds fill the air, punctuated by agonized screams that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

In the dream, I know I should run, but my legs refuse to move. Something approaches me, its footsteps slow and deliberate, dragging heavily across the floor.

I always wake up before I see it.

I don’t talk about it much anymore. Jake’s the only person who knows the full story, and even he avoids bringing it up. It’s easier that way, pretending like it never happened.

But sometimes, when I see jagged handwriting etched into a random bathroom stall or a graffiti-covered wall, I wonder how many other people have called the number—that number.

And I wonder… how many others got out alive?