You hear a polite knock on the door . The closet door .

*Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 I lift my head up from my laptop and pull my oversized headphones off of my ears. `` That ca n't be right,'' I mutter under my breath. 
 
 I continue to stare at what I think was the source of the noise: a small closet in the corner of my bedroom. I never used the closet. I kept my all of my clothes either the drawers of my armoire or draped over chairs. All that was inside the closet were some boxes of old junk from my childhood I had not looked at in years. 
 
 *Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 `` Hello?'' I call out almost inaudibly. I clear my throat and decide to sound a little bit more authoritative. `` Hello?'' 
 
 *Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 `` Maybe it's not coming from the closet,'' I think to myself. I get up from my bed and put my feet on the floor, all the while staring at the closet door. What the fuck? What felt like twenty minutes passed. 
 
 *Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 I freeze. `` No this is fucking stupid there is no way that there is anything in this closet.'' I make my way to the door and wrench it open. It's empty aside from the boxes and the dust bunnies who were renting out the space. 
 
 *Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 Now it's more aggressive than before and it's coming from behind me. I about face quickly to see something in the room. I would say it was standing but it was n't. It was n't floating though either. Nor did it have any sort of form that made me think of it as human, past, present, or future. It was n't a ghost. No, not quite. 
 
 I walked up to the mass that had just entered my room and felt a chill go down my spine that caused me to stop in my tracks. Something made me feel like I should not go any further. But now the mass was becoming clearer, not solidifying but glowing in such a way as to allow me to see what it was. 
 
 *Knock, knock, knock* 
 
 It was making the noise. Was it language? Was it like the bark of a dog or the song of a bird? 
 
 The mass began to glow stronger and become even clearer. It was, in fact, a person. He was an older gentleman, of at least sixty. He had a kindly smile on his face and wore a gray bowler on his head which matched his gray, Armani suit and black dress shoes. More importantly to me though, I could see the source of the knocking now: his walking stick. It was made of polished oak and had a diamond on the end the man was holding. The sound was him knocking the cane on his ground, wood on wood. 
 
 I stared, dumbfounded at what was now in front of me. 
 
 The old man was now beaming at me. `` Hello, Daniel,'' he said to me in a warm, raspy voice. 
 
 And so began one of the greatest adventures of my life.
