Writer’s block

Asif stares at the blank page, his chest tightening with that all-too-familiar dread. The cursor blinks back at him, steady and unbothered. "Another night," he mutters, the words stale on his tongue, "another blank slate." He bites the end of his pen. The plastic tastes gritty—like failure, like the dust of old attempts. The digital clock on the nightstand glows cold: 11:47 PM.

Soon.

Beside him, Shefali sleeps soundly, a deep symphony of snores rising and falling in rhythm. Usually, her presence pulls him under too. Tonight, her sleep is just another reminder of what he can't reach—peace, quiet, rest.

"How does she do it?" he wonders, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest. "One minute she's talking, the next she's gone, like diving into another world." He envies her ease, her escape.

 He's tried everything—every tired first line, every desperate opening: "A lone wolf howled at the moon.", "The old woman's eyes held a secret as ancient as time.", even absurdities like "The pigeon blinked."

None of them work. Each phrase feels borrowed, like wearing someone else's shoes. Tight. Wrong.

His gaze shifts to the bedroom door. It's old—solid wood, painted in a once-cream color that has faded to something more like tired bones. Its surface is chipped, scarred with time. Unremarkable to anyone else. But Asif knows better.

That door holds something. A secret. A ritual.

11:58 PM.

The air thickens. There's a buzz to it now, subtle but unmistakable. His pulse starts to race—a drumbeat in his ears.

"Just listen, Asif," he murmurs, adjusting against the headboard. Notebook balanced on his knees.

 "Just listen." He tightens his grip on the pen. Knuckles go pale.

Midnight.

Prick… prick… prick…

It begins. Soft. Delicate. Almost like a whisper made of needles. It slices through Shefali's snores, sharp and clear, yet impossible to pin down.

He holds his breath.

"Where is it?" he whispers. "Top of the door? Near the handle?"

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To fold a city into silence

But the sound shifts, like it doesn't want to be found. It doesn't come from the surface of the wood, but within it—like something alive, trapped, tapping from inside.

The rhythm doesn't stay steady. Sometimes, it's a quick flurry. Sometimes, they're long pauses that stretch like a long, deep breath. It's maddening.

He remembers the night he flung the door open, convinced he'd find the source.

Just the hallway. Empty. Still.

"There's nothing there, Asif," he told himself then, though his voice sounded hollow in the silence. But deep down, he knew. He tried everything—locked it, wedged a chair under the handle, stacked books against it like a barricade. Still, the sound came as if mocking him.

Now, he listens with a strange, quiet reverence: "Is it Morse code?" he wonders. "A message? A warning?" His starved imagination starts spinning wild theories: a ghost, a spirit in limbo, a sentient piece of the building remembering something ancient.The sound crawls into his brain, itching at the base of his skull. His pen slips from his hand, forgotten. His focus narrows to the door—just the door—and the persistent, taunting rhythm.

Then—an urge. Sudden. Bold.

He picks up the pen again.

"No," he says aloud. "I won't let it win. I won't wait for the perfect line. I'll write what's real." Eyes closed, he lets the sound wash over him, lets it fill the quiet spaces in his mind. And then, he writes.

The first line doesn't come like thunder or prophecy. It comes like the noise. Quiet. Honest.

"The first line didn't come. What came is the intermittent pricking noise from the door."

 He pauses. A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. It's not profound. But it's true. And for the first time in what feels like forever, it feels like a beginning.

The pricking continues—steady, strange—and Asif, finally, begins to write. That moment of triumph doesn't last.

The next night, the pricking returns. And the one after that. Always at midnight. Always that same quiet knock from within. What was once a puzzle becomes a torment—A tick. A drip. A slow erosion of sanity. He wakes up every morning with a headache nesting behind his eyes. Sweat clings to his skin. Not from heat—but from anxiety. Even during the day, the sound follows him. He hears it in his bones, in his imagination. He stares at doors—his office, the bathroom, even the fridge—half-expecting that same sound to begin again.

One morning, Shefali touches his cheek, softening her voice: "Asif, you look exhausted," she says. Her palm is cool against the fever of his skin. "Are you okay? You've been… quiet. You're scaring me."

He flinches: "Just writer's block," he mumbles. "It's… a beast."

But it's more than that. And he knows it. She deserves the truth, but how does he explain it? How do you tell someone you're haunted by a door? He sees it—the pity in her eyes.

Poor Asif is a ghost in his own world again. He hates that look. His writing withers.That once-promising line now taunts him: "The first line didn't come…" It just sits there. A dead end.

He tries to write more, to shape the sound into a story. But the words twist away from him. His thoughts feel tangled, frayed. The narrative won't come. Just like the door won't open.

Then, one night, it starts early.

11:03 PM.

Faster. Louder. Like tiny fists beating on the inside of his skull. He slaps his hands over his ears. It doesn't help. The sound intensifies.

"Stop it!" he hisses, voice cracking. Tears sting his eyes.

"What do you want from me?" His breath comes ragged. Heart hammering.

And then—

Silence.

Deafening.

Too wide. Too heavy.

He turns to Shefali—sleeping, untroubled. She doesn't hear it. She never does.

He is alone. Alone with a door that only whispers to him.

"Am I going mad?" he whispers to the empty room. No answer.

"Is it me? Is it my mind pricking at itself? Is it making shadows on the inside of my skull?"

A shiver runs through him. Colder than any breeze. The door watches. Waits. Not just a door anymore—but a presence. A patient adversary.

And with each midnight tap, it chips away at what remains of his grip on reality.

Haroonuzzaman is a translator, novelist, poet, researcher, and essayist. Besides teaching English in Libya and Qatar for about 12 years, he has had 20 years of teaching experience in English Language and Literature at Independent University, Bangladesh (IUB).