Whispers Behind the Door

The house had stood silent for years, its presence a haunting silhouette at the end of Elmhurst Lane. No one ever mowed the overgrown lawn. The windows, once lined with lace curtains, were now dusty and blank. The neighbors called it The Stillhouse, not just because it had been abandoned, but because even birds refused to perch on its gutters.

Eleanor Kane had never believed in ghost stories. At 32, she was a clinical psychologist who dealt in logic, trauma, and evidence. But when her estranged aunt Lydia passed away and left her the house in her will, Eleanor’s curiosity overcame her skepticism. She arrived just after dusk, suitcase in one hand, the house key in the other, wrapped in brittle yellowed paper with the words: “Don’t open the door upstairs.”

She scoffed.

Inside, the house was oddly preserved — not dusty as one might expect, but clean, untouched. The wallpaper was faded but intact. The furniture, covered in white sheets, seemed almost poised, as though waiting for someone to sit down.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

She explored the first floor, opening drawers, checking closets, looking for signs of what her aunt had feared. Nothing. Then she climbed the creaking staircase to the second floor.

At the end of the hallway stood a single, black-painted door. Unlike the others, it had no handle, only a keyhole. Eleanor felt a twinge of unease.

She knew this was the door.

Ignoring the lump rising in her throat, she inserted the key from the envelope. It fit. With a turn, something clicked. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed the door open.

Inside was a room barely touched by time. A child’s bed with wooden posts stood under a cracked skylight. Toys were scattered neatly across the floor — too neatly. A wooden rocking horse faced the corner. And on the far wall: drawings. Dozens of them. Crayon images of a door. The same door, drawn over and over.

And in every single one, a shadow stood behind it.

Eleanor’s breath caught. She stepped forward, crouching to inspect one of the pictures. They weren’t just scribbles — they were detailed. A child’s hand, yes, but with striking consistency.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A voicemail — from an unknown number.

She pressed play.

> “You opened it,” a voice rasped. A child’s voice.
“You weren’t supposed to. You let it hear you.”



Her phone died mid-message.

Eleanor stared at the blank screen, her hands suddenly clammy. She heard something then — a faint creak. From inside the room. She turned.

The rocking horse had moved.

No wind. No footsteps. Just that quiet, deliberate rock. Back. And forth.

She backed out of the room and shut the door — but it didn’t close fully. Something resisted. Something on the other side.

She didn’t sleep that night.


---

The next day, Eleanor went through her aunt’s journals. They were scattered, frantic, filled with phrases like “It speaks when the lights go out” and “He draws to remember who he is”. One entry chilled her:

> “I locked the door in 1982. He was only five when it began. He whispered things no child should know. His drawings kept getting darker. I thought it was grief. But then the voices came. From behind the door. They told him to open it. One day, he did. And I never saw my son again.”



Her cousin. A boy no one had ever spoken about.

That night, Eleanor sat in front of the door. She didn’t open it again — just listened. Hours passed. Nothing. She laughed nervously at herself. But just as she stood to leave—

A whisper.

Faint. Indistinct.

She knelt.

"Hello?"

A pause. Then: “Eleanor.”

Her blood froze. She hadn’t said her name.

It wasn’t just a whisper — it was inside her mind, cold and sharp like broken glass.

She ran.


---

Eleanor packed the next morning. She would leave the house, maybe even sell it. But as she walked down the hallway one last time, the door was open again.

This time, the drawings had changed.

Now, they showed her.

In each crayon sketch, she stood in the hallway, staring at the door. And behind it, something grew darker and larger with every frame — a shape with too-long arms and a twisted, childlike face.

She turned to run — but there was something else now.

Another door at the end of the hall. One that hadn’t been there before.

From behind it came laughter. A child’s giggle, distorted. And then:

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like fingers on the wood.

Eleanor screamed, backing away — but the house seemed to stretch, the hallway elongating. The whispers rose around her in a spiral of sound. Her mind blurred.

And then—

Silence.

The neighbors say the house is quiet again. The door remains closed.

But if you listen closely, you can still hear whispers behind it.

And sometimes, in crayon on the walls, a new drawing appears.

This time, it’s you.

Moral of the Story:

> Some doors are closed for a reason — curiosity without caution can awaken what was meant to be forgotten.