Behind The Door

The town of Ashford had always been quiet. It was a place where everyone knew each other’s names, their stories, their secrets—except for one house. The abandoned house at the edge of town had been standing there for as long as anyone could remember, its charred walls a haunting reminder of the family who had perished in the fire that tore through it years ago.

The fire had taken everything—except for the rumors. Whispers of strange occurrences—strange disappearances, flickering lights at night, and ghostly figures seen in the windows—still floated through Ashford’s quiet streets. Yet, no one dared to go near the house. No one, except Megan.

Megan had always been drawn to the unknown. A journalist new to Ashford, she was eager to uncover the truth behind the town’s darkest tale. The locals, fearful and tight-lipped, had warned her to leave the house alone, but Megan wasn’t one to shy away from a mystery. She had always believed that truth was worth the chase, no matter the cost.

One gray afternoon, Megan stood in front of the house, the wind whipping through the overgrown yard. The gate, rusted and barely hanging on its hinges, creaked as she pushed it open. The house loomed before her—its windows dark and lifeless, its front door ajar, as though inviting her inside.

As she crossed the threshold, a chill ran down her spine. The air was thick with decay, and the silence inside the house was oppressive. She could almost feel the weight of its history, its tragic past pressing in on her. She pulled out her notebook, eager to document her findings, to piece together the story of what had really happened here.

But as she ventured further into the house, a strange sensation took hold of her—an unsettling feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Her footfalls echoed in the emptiness, and every creak of the floorboards seemed amplified in the silence. The house seemed alive, breathing in the dust-filled air, watching her every move. Megan tried to ignore the creeping sensation of being followed, but it only grew stronger. She could feel the weight of eyes on her, though there was no one in sight.

Then, the sound came.

A faint scraping, like something—or someone—dragging across the floor. It was coming from behind her. She spun around, her heart racing, but there was no one there. Just the empty, decaying room stretching out in all directions.

She took a shaky breath, trying to dismiss the feeling. Old houses creaked, after all. But the scraping sound continued, louder now, closer, as though something—or someone—was moving in the darkness just behind her.

She turned toward the door at the end of the hallway. It stood half-open, a sliver of darkness beyond. Something moved inside, a shadow, fleeting and indistinct. Her heart skipped a beat.

Megan knew she should turn back, that this wasn’t normal, that she was crossing a line she couldn’t un-cross. But she couldn’t stop herself. The door beckoned, and her curiosity pushed her forward.

As she stepped into the dim hallway, the air grew colder, heavier. The shadows seemed to lengthen, stretching toward her like fingers trying to grasp her. She reached out toward the door, her hand trembling as it made contact with the handle.

It opened with a soft creak.

And there, in the dim light, stood a figure.

Tall, gaunt, and dressed in ragged clothes, it was nothing more than a silhouette, its face obscured by shadows. It didn’t move, didn’t speak. It just stood there, staring at her with hollow eyes.

Megan’s breath caught in her throat. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor. The figure seemed to shift slightly, as if it were made of the very shadows around it.

The air thickened, pressing against her chest as the figure reached a hand toward her. But it wasn’t reaching for her—it was reaching for the door behind her, the one she had entered through.

Megan’s pulse quickened. She turned sharply, her heart pounding in her ears, but the door behind her had vanished. Instead, there was only an impenetrable wall of darkness, closing in around her, suffocating her.

The shadows seemed to swirl, twisting and writhing like living things, and Megan realized with a jolt that the figure hadn’t been a ghost at all—it had been something much worse.

The house itself.

The figure took another slow, deliberate step forward, and Megan was paralyzed with fear. She wanted to scream, to run, but the house seemed to be pulling her in, dragging her toward the darkness that waited just beyond the doorway.

As the figure raised its hand, the walls around her seemed to close in, the darkness pressing in from all sides. She could feel it—could feel the house trying to swallow her whole, to claim her as it had claimed the family that once lived here.

In that moment, Megan understood. She understood what the house had become, what it had always been: a prison. A place where the past never truly died, where the souls of the lost were trapped, waiting for the next victim to stumble into its grasp.

Megan backed away, but the shadows were everywhere now. She couldn’t escape. The figure moved closer, its cold, empty eyes fixed on her. And as the darkness engulfed her, she realized, too late, that some things are better left alone.

Some stories, some secrets, are too dangerous to uncover. The house had been hiding its truth for years, and now it would never let her go.

Moral: "Some secrets are better left undisturbed."

Megan’s insatiable curiosity had led her to uncover the dark truth of the house, but in doing so, she had awakened something far worse than she could have ever imagined. Some mysteries, no matter how tempting they may seem, are not meant to be uncovered. Sometimes, the past is best left in the shadows, undisturbed, before it pulls you in and drags you under.