Three Knocks

They're in the walls. I can hear them, but I can't see them. Faint music drifts from the space, driving my cat crazy.

One afternoon, in a last-ditch effort, I decided to move the couch from the wall. It left deep divots. That's when I found it.

The door was as tall as a ruler and as wide as my palm. Tiny, really. I lay prone and
investigated. It was elegant. Ornate. But minuscule. I jiggled the fingernail-sized handle. Nada. It was locked. I attempted to pick the lock with a paper clip, but it was too big. A butter knife only scratched up the door.

Finally, I decided to knock. I knocked three times. Enough to express how ridiculous this was.

I heard the door unlock. A small man, about nine and a quarter inches tall, poked his head out, and then opened the door.

"You're so tiny!" I said.

The man went flying down the hall of his house.

As I tried to help the man, there was a knock at my own door. Three knocks. I poked my head out to see a giant face staring back at me. It was then that I went flying, too.