A tap in the night

His eyes popped open to a noise in the hallway. He hadn’t really heard the noise, not consciously anyway. Some facet of his brain, one that lives between instinct and his subconsciousness, woke him. A nagging voice urging him to investigate a sound. One he wasn’t sure if he had even heard. He thought of dismissing it. Rolling over and getting some rest while he still had a chance. The want for sleep often outweighs the real-world chance danger lurks outside your door. Usually, the culprit is harmless. That is — usually, but not always. He propped himself up on his elbows and glanced at his bedside clock; it was 2:15. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and mumbled, “shit”, almost in a whisper.
He had already committed to boosting himself out of bed. His legs were midair and ass rolling across the mattress when he heard it again. The unmistakable sound of fingernails scratching along the outside of his door. One gut-wrenching scratch. His feet landed, and he froze in place. Moments like this, he regretted his teenage mistakes. A poor decision he made twenty-plus years ago left him a convicted felon, defenseless, and without a gun. The alarm ringing in his brain intensified from code orange to code red. He stared at the door, shuffling a list of explainable reasons in his head. He attempted one last explanation to himself; you were dreaming, and you still are. He wanted to believe that. See some spark of reason and laugh at himself for overreacting. But no peace came to him.
He reached for the pocketknife in his wadded-up jeans on the floor. Too close, too messy, he thought. Too many things could go wrong. Louisville Slugger in the corner by the door. Now that’s a safer alternative. He was on his feet and inching toward the bat before he’d had time to flesh out any kind of plan. He left the pants bunched on the floor. No time. The thing scratching his door will get the as-is version. Skivvy drawers and a baseball bat.
After taking several steps, the noise at the door started again. This time, it came as a slow, constant tapping. The tip of a single fingernail striking the door. Tap, tap, tap. His heartbeat went from fast to snare drum on a drum line. His imagination created the image of an evil ghostly figure knocking its tattered, dead fingernail on the door.
He closed the distance to the bat in a sprint. His sweaty, trembling fingers clinched the wooden handle. The weapon offered little comfort. In honesty, it worsened his fear. An idea became reality. Grabbing the bat was a commitment to face an unknown evil thing. God help me, this whole thing is real.
Then the tapping stopped. And with that, John stood in front of his bedroom door. Ass naked, save the worn underwear, and a Louisville slugger. He had one choice to make standing there. Reach for the knob.