The porch light had been out for three days.
Elena noticed them when she took the trash to the curb. Two children stood at the end of the driveway, just past the reach of the streetlamp. They wore hoodies with the hoods up. Their hands were in their pockets. They did not fidget. They watched her walk the bin down and walk back. When she reached the steps she looked again. They had not moved. The smaller one lifted a hand in a wave that stopped halfway, like the motion had been practiced and then forgotten.
She went inside and locked the door. Through the sidelight she could still see them. They stayed at the edge of the driveway until the streetlamp cycled off. Then they were gone. She told herself they were neighborhood kids cutting through. She left the porch light off on purpose the next night so she would not have to see the bulb die again.
They came back at 9:40.
Elena was rinsing a glass when the knock started—three soft taps, evenly spaced, at the front door. She dried her hands and checked the peephole. The same two children stood on the mat. The taller one was closer to the door. His face was turned up toward the peephole. The eyes were entirely black. No white. No reflection from the hallway light behind her. He smiled with his mouth closed.
“Can we come in?” he said. The voice was the right age. The words were polite. “Our phones died. We just need to call our mom.”
Elena kept the chain on. She did not open the door.
“There’s a pay phone at the gas station,” she said. “Two blocks that way.”
The smaller child shifted. The hoodie sleeve rode up. The wrist underneath was pale and smooth, the way skin looks when it has never been in the sun. He did not blink. Neither of them blinked.
“It’s dark,” the taller one said. “Please. We’ll be quick.”
Elena stepped back from the peephole. The glass in her hand had gone warm. She set it on the table and listened. The children did not knock again. She heard one of them lean closer to the door. The wood creaked under a small weight.
“We can see you,” the smaller one said. The voice came from lower than it should have, level with the mail slot. “You’re standing by the table. You have a blue glass. You’re scared. That’s okay. We won’t stay long.”
She turned off the hallway light. The house went dark except for the kitchen. Through the sidelight she watched their silhouettes. They did not leave. They stood with their hands still in their pockets and their faces turned toward the glass. Once, the taller one tilted his head the way a person does when they are listening to something on the other side of a wall. Elena stayed in the kitchen until the streetlamp came on again. When she looked, the driveway was empty. On the mat outside the door lay a single black hair, long and straight, curled into a loose circle.
The next evening she did not answer the door at all.
The knock came at the same time. Three taps. Then silence. Then the smaller voice, close to the wood.
“We know you’re home. The light’s on in the back. You don’t have to open it all the way. Just the chain. We only need a minute.”
Elena sat on the floor with her back against the refrigerator and her phone in her hand. She did not call anyone. She watched the time. At 10:17 the knocking stopped. She heard footsteps move off the porch, down the steps, and stop at the end of the driveway. They waited there. She could feel them waiting. When she finally stood and checked the sidelight, they were looking straight at her through the glass. The black eyes did not catch the streetlamp. They only held the dark and gave it back.
“Tomorrow,” the taller one said. He sounded patient. “We’ll try the back door tomorrow. You leave that one unlocked sometimes. We’ve seen you.”
Elena did not sleep. She dragged the bookshelf in front of the back door and wedged a chair under the front. At 3:04 she heard the soft test of the back-door handle. It turned once, met the bookshelf, and stopped. A small hand rested against the glass of the window above the sink. The fingers were short. The palm left a print that stayed after the hand pulled away. From the other side of the glass came the smaller voice, almost kind.
“You don’t have to be afraid of us,” it said. “We’re only children. We just want to come in where it’s warm. We’ll leave when we’re finished.”
Elena stayed on the floor until morning. When the sun rose she opened the front door. The mat was empty. The hair was gone. Down at the end of the driveway, just past the curb, two small sets of footprints ended in the grass and did not continue. She stood in the doorway with the chain still on and watched the empty street. Somewhere behind the houses a child laughed, high and brief, and then the sound cut off like a door had closed on it. She did not step outside. She already knew they would be back when the porch light failed again, and that next time they would not bother knocking first.
