"Ghosts Don’t Knock"

Posted on Wed Jul 16th, 2025 @ 2:49pm by Leader Victor Rourke

543 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Steven's Point
Location: Stevens Point, Rourke's quarters
Timeline: October 1st 00h35

The wind howled outside like a starving animal, rattling loose shutters somewhere down the corridor. The generator kicked once and then settled into its low, mechanical growl. The city slept. Or tried to.

Colonel Victor Rourke sat alone in his quarters, a half-empty glass of bourbon resting on the table beside him. He wasn’t drunk. He never got drunk. Just warm enough to dull the edges of memory. Just enough to pretend he didn’t see their faces when he closed his eyes.

His quarters were sparse: a bed he rarely used, a battered wooden desk, a wall-mounted map of Steven’s Point with color-coded pins, and a shelf of old military manuals. There was one photograph, though. Tucked behind a row of field journals—Evelyn, Jonathan, and Hannah.

Taken at some Fourth of July picnic, maybe fifteen years ago. The corners were frayed, the image slightly faded.

He hadn’t looked at it in weeks.

But tonight, sleep wouldn’t come.

Not after the dream.

He rubbed at his face, hands trembling just enough to make him clench them into fists again. In the dream, he was back in the family home. Not the fortified shell of what it might be now—but clean, peaceful. Evelyn humming in the kitchen. Jonathan in uniform, proud. And Hannah… Hannah laughing in the backyard, chasing fireflies in the dusk. Her voice echoed in his head even now. “Daddy, watch me!”

He hadn’t watched.

Not enough.

And now she was somewhere out there—or maybe buried under rubble, bones picked clean by rot. Or worse.

He got up and paced the room, boots heavy on the old linoleum floor. The city outside was quiet. Too quiet. That meant either safety or someone plotting something.

Victor hated silence.

He stopped by the window, looking out over the barricaded streets lit by flickering torches and floodlights. His city. Built with fear. Secured by discipline. Protected by cold, merciless rules.
And yet…

He could still see Evelyn standing in the doorway of their kitchen, flour on her hands, giving him that look. The one that asked if this—all of this—was worth it. Back then, it had been about deployments and missed birthdays. Now, it was bodies strung up outside the gates as warnings.

He clenched his jaw and turned from the window.

On the desk was a folder—reports from the northern perimeter. Raider activity, missing patrols, low rations. All fixable. All solvable with order.

But not the dreams.

He sat back down, poured another inch of bourbon, and stared at the photo again. Hannah’s smile burned behind his eyes. Evelyn’s calm, unwavering gaze. Jonathan’s clean-cut pride.
They were gone.

Or maybe he had been the one to disappear. Long before the world ended.

The nightmares weren’t about death. Not really.

They were about what he’d chosen.

And what he’d sacrificed.

He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out Evelyn’s wedding ring. Worn, gold, still bearing the tiny engraving on the inside. Ever steady.

He held it in his palm. Tight.

A knock at the door startled him.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

It didn’t come again.

Ghosts didn’t knock.

 

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