The Knock

“Some knocks are just people saying hello. Others are the kind that change everything—even if you don’t open the door.”

I was still fiddling with the zip on my schoolbag — the little metal pull had bent sideways, and I was trying to straighten it with my thumbnail — when the knock came.

Three of them. Evenly spaced. Deliberate.

Not loud, not angry. But they didn't sound like they belonged to someone who'd come for a cuppa either.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each knock made the wooden frame of the front door creak, like it had been hit by something heavy but controlled. The sound travelled through the floorboards, up through my socks, and into my chest where it echoed against my ribs. It was the kind of knock that didn't wait for permission. The kind that didn't expect you to say no. The kind that already knew what it wanted.

I froze halfway through zipping my bag. The teeth of the zip sat crooked, like they weren't sure whether to stay closed or open. My fingers suddenly felt stiff and clumsy, as if they'd forgotten how to do even this simple task. The room seemed to drop a few degrees colder in an instant.

Mack was crouched at the other end of the hallway, holding his little torch in one hand, the torch we weren't supposed to touch. The one from Grandpa's shed with the worn rubber grip and the dented metal casing. His backpack was open, clothes half-folded inside, a jumper sleeve dangling out like an escaping limb. He looked at me, eyes narrowed. His head tilted just slightly, like a cat hearing something through a window. His face had gone still, all the colour draining from it until his freckles stood out like ink spots on blank paper.

The knock came again.

Harder this time. More insistent. The door seemed to shrink against the frame, as if trying to make itself smaller.

Grandma had been in the kitchen just moments before — I'd heard the clink of cutlery and the squeak of the tap that always needed an extra turn to stop dripping — but now she was in the hallway, standing completely still. She seemed to have materialised there between one second and the next, like a ghost in one of Mack's scary stories.

Her apron was damp, hanging lopsided from one shoulder, and her arms were by her sides. Her hands were bare, no tea towel, no spoon, just pale and still as carved stone. But I noticed that the fingers of her right hand twitched once. Then again. A tiny, involuntary movement, like the leg of our dog Charlie when she was dreaming.

“Mack,” she said, barely turning her head. “Take your sister. Back room.”

She didn't shout. She didn't raise her voice at all. In fact, it was softer than usual, barely above a whisper. But something in the way she said it made it stick right in the middle of my chest. Like a splinter you can't see but can definitely feel.

“Quiet now,” she added. “Go.”

I didn't move right away.

Not because I didn't want to — but because I couldn't. My legs felt suddenly heavy, as if someone had filled my bones with lead. I was watching her. Watching the way she kept her eyes fixed on the door, like it was a wild animal that might charge. Her shoulders were tense, pulled up toward her ears. A vein in her neck pulsed visibly, a tiny flutter of panic beneath her skin.

Mack moved first. He stood without making a sound, slung his bag over one shoulder, then grabbed my wrist. His palm was damp with sweat, but his grip was firm, anchoring me to something solid in a world that suddenly felt like quicksand.

“This way,” he whispered, tugging me down the hall.

We went into the sewing room — the one where we slept, the one with the creaky fold-out bed and the cupboard that always groaned when you opened it. The one where the ghost lived, though that seemed like a silly childish fear now compared to whatever was happening. We didn't close the door, just left it cracked open enough to see out, a sliver of hallway visible through the gap.

From our angle, we had a partial view into the entryway and just the edge of the front door, its chain still hanging there, still swaying from being unlatched. The metal links caught the light as they moved, like a tiny pendulum counting seconds that stretched too long.

Beside me, Mack's breathing was shallow and controlled, barely disturbing the air. In the lounge room, the television murmured on, forgotten in the sudden tension, the cheerful gardening show continuing as if nothing unusual was happening.

Grandma stood still for a moment longer.

She smoothed her hair with one hand, a familiar gesture made strange by its deliberate slowness. Then she touched the cross pendant at her throat—the silver one Grandpa had given her on their wedding day—before letting her hand fall back to her side.

Then, slowly, she reached out and turned the doorknob.

The metal made a soft click as it rotated. The hinges creaked slightly as the door opened, a low, reluctant groan like old bones protesting movement.

Cold air drifted in — dry and sharp, with that dusty metallic smell you get just before a thunderstorm. The clouds I’d drawn earlier were still out there, but they looked different now — thin and stretched, like they'd been pulled too far across the sky. The sunlight was harsh and unflinching, washing out colours and leaving nowhere to hide.

I couldn't see the people on the other side.

Just the shadow of two shapes — side by side, tall, not moving. They stood unnaturally straight, their outlines crisp and defined against the morning light. One was slightly taller than the other, but otherwise, they seemed almost identical. Like playing cards from the same deck.

Not neighbours.

Not the postie.

And certainly not friendly.

“Good morning, ma’am,” said a man's voice. Firm. Trained. Like someone who'd said the same words a hundred times and had stopped thinking about them.

Grandma didn't respond. At least not with words. From my limited view through the crack in the door, I could see her shoulders stiffen, her spine straightening as if bracing against an invisible weight.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” the voice continued. “We've been conducting follow-ups on local submissions. There was a report flagged from the chemist — for Mr Gregory Clift.”

My stomach did a strange flip. Hearing Grandpa's name like that — said by a stranger — made something in me go cold. Not like ice cream cold, but empty-house cold. The kind of cold that comes when something familiar suddenly becomes strange.

There was a pause. Long enough that I thought maybe Grandma had shut the door on them. But she hadn't. The shadows still stretched across the threshold, two dark silhouettes cutting into the worn hallway.

Another voice joined in — this one was quieter, but clipped. A woman, I thought. Her words came out careful and measured, like she was reading from a list.

“We're required to verify reported symptoms,” she said. “Coughing. Lethargy. Non-responsiveness.”

A soft shuffling of paper. The sound of a plastic case being unlatched. Something electronic beeped quietly.

“The file lists several indicators, including breath irregularity and fatigue over a prolonged period. A test was submitted on Sunday.” The woman's shadow shifted, and I caught a glimpse of something in her hands—a small device with blinking lights, about the size of Dad's old portable radio. She held it like it was important, like it contained secrets.

I looked at Mack.

He looked at me.

We hadn't gone to the chemist. Not since Mum left. Had we? Grandpa hadn't left the house in days. Who would have tested him?

Grandma spoke finally — her voice low, with a stiffness I hadn't heard before. “He wasn't tested.” Each word seemed to cost her something, as if she were paying for them with pieces of herself.

“The result came through,” the man replied. His tone was calm but unyielding, like stone. “It was registered through the regional observation system. Lab-coded from Broken Hill Base.”

Mack clenched his jaw. His fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe. I could see the knuckles turning white, the skin stretched tight over bone. A muscle jumped in his cheek, pulsing with tension.

“Result was positive.”

That word again.

Positive.

I didn't know what it meant. But it sounded like the opposite of what it used to mean. It didn't sound like a sticker on your homework anymore. It didn't sound like something good at all. It sounded like something you wanted to hide.

“We need to conduct a verification test,” the woman said, holding up the device. It made another soft beep, as if agreeing with her. “Standard protocol.”

Another silence.

Then came the next word. The one that made the skin on my arms prickle.

“Removal.”

I didn't know what removal meant either, but the way they said it — soft, final — made my legs feel strange under me. Like I wasn't sure whether to sit or run. Like my body was preparing for something my mind didn't understand yet.

Grandma's voice came again, harder this time. “He stays here.”

“He's not in a condition to make that decision,” said the woman. The device in her hand emitted a low, steady hum now, like an impatient insect.

“Neither are you.”

The man cleared his throat. I heard the rustle of fabric—a jacket being adjusted, perhaps. “The testing device shows preliminary detection even from here. We need to get closer readings.”

I pressed closer to Mack. He didn't push me away. His arm came around my shoulder, pulling me against his side. I could feel his heart beating, too fast, like a trapped bird.

“Look,” said the man, quieter now. “I don't want this to be difficult. We just need to confirm location and status with the device. If he's non-mobile, we'll coordinate transport. You can accompany him.”

“No.”

“Mrs Clift—”

“I said no.”

More silence.

From our crack in the door, I could see the living room. Grandpa's chair was in full view now. His head had lolled to one side. The blanket Grandma had tucked over his legs earlier had slipped down to the floor, a pool of faded tartan against the carpet.

He wasn't asleep.

But he wasn't moving either.

His mouth hung slightly open, and a line of saliva had dripped onto the front of his jumper. His hand, resting on the armrest, twitched once. Then went still again. His chest barely moved with each shallow breath, like even breathing was becoming too much effort.

“They'll want to know if the children were exposed,” said the woman. The device in her hand swivelled slightly, as if searching for something. Its lights blinked in a pattern I didn't understand—red, green, red, red, green.

“They weren’t,” Grandma snapped. Her voice was sharp enough to cut.

“They've been staying here.”

“They weren't exposed.”

The device beeped again, three times in quick succession. The woman glanced down at it, then back up. “The initial results indicate otherwise. We'll need samples from them too.”

A quiet moment passed.

Then the man said, “We'll wait.”

Not with urgency. Not with force. Just... stated. Like they had all the time in the world. Like waiting was just another part of their job.

Mack let out a sharp breath beside me. Almost like a hiss. His fingers dug into my shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but enough to keep me still. Enough to tell me: Don't move. Don't make a sound.

He turned to me and leaned close.

“They're going to take him.”

I didn't understand. “Take him where?”

Mack didn't answer.

But I saw something new in his eyes — not fear. Something else. Recognition.

Like this wasn't just scary anymore — it was familiar to him. Like a shape he'd seen before but hadn't wanted to admit. Like a story he'd heard once and tried to forget.

“The processing centre in Silverton,” the woman said, her voice carrying clearly down the hallway. “It's where all positives go. For observation.”

“For quarantine,” the man corrected. “Until recovery or... other outcomes.”

Grandma's feet moved slowly across the hall. She stepped into the lounge and crouched beside Grandpa's chair. I couldn't hear what she whispered, but I saw her hand on his. Her fingers interlaced with his unresponsive ones, squeezing gently as if trying to wake him, to bring him back from wherever he'd drifted.

She stood up a moment later, straightened her back, and turned to face the front door.

“Give me five minutes,” she said. Her voice had changed—harder, more certain. A decision had been made.

“Four,” the man replied. “The device readings are escalating. We need to process him quickly.”

Then came the sound of boots shifting on the front step. Not retreating. Just waiting.

Like hungry wedge-tailed eagles.

The testing device continued its quiet hum, punctuated by occasional beeps. A small red light on its side pulsed steadily, like a mechanical heartbeat counting down the seconds.

Grandma stepped back into the hall, softly closing the front door.

Her face looked different now.

Her mouth was a flat line. Her eyes sharper. And her apron was gone. In its place was her good cardigan, the blue one with pearl buttons that she only wore to church or special occasions.

She turned and walked straight toward us.