The Forbidden Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

The monk had lived in the ancient monastery for years, nestled deep in the mountains where fog clung to the trees like ghosts. His life was a solitary one—dedicated to prayer, meditation, and the careful copying of sacred texts. The temple was quiet, its stone walls thick with age, save for one thing that disturbed his peaceful routine.

The door.

It stood at the far end of the main hall, dark and heavy, its wood worn smooth with time. He had been told the rule when he first arrived: Never open the door. No matter what you hear, no matter what calls you—never touch the door.

For years, he had obeyed. But tonight, something was different. As the wind howled outside and the candles flickered, the silence of the temple was broken by a soft knock.

His heart skipped. The knock came again, this time louder, more insistent. Sweat beaded on his brow as he tried to return to his prayer, his mind racing. Who could be knocking at such an hour? The temple had no visitors, no living soul but him.

Another knock—this time a voice accompanied it, low and hoarse. “Let me in.”

The monk’s pulse quickened. His hand trembled as he rose to his feet, moving toward the door as if pulled by an unseen force.

With each step, the voice grew more familiar, as if it was calling his name.

Finally, standing before the door, he hesitated. The rule echoed in his mind—don’t open it—but he reached out, his hand touching the cold wood.

The door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness.

And then, the voice whispered from within, "You’ve let me in."

The door slammed shut behind him.