Don't Open the Door

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

Everyone at Ridgeway High knew it. The rule wasn’t part of some hazing prank or silly tradition passed down by seniors; it was a warning carved deep into the school’s bones. No one spoke of why—they just followed the rule. Room 213 had been sealed off for years, down the narrow corridor on the second floor. Dust collected on the brass knob, and the door itself was as much a part of the school as the faded lockers and worn-out desks. You just… didn’t go near it.

That was until Dylan transferred in.

Dylan was the kind of kid who never played by the rules. With his shaggy brown hair and a smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face, he stood out. He wasn’t afraid of anything—or at least, he didn’t want anyone to think he was. Within a week, he had become the talk of the school, always trying to stir up trouble and push boundaries.

“What’s with that door?” he asked one day, pointing down the hall where 213 sat. A group of us were hanging around after school, waiting for rides home. The question fell like a rock into a pond, sending ripples of unease through the group.

It was Megan who finally spoke up. She was the smart one, always top of the class, and she rarely believed in the superstitions everyone else bought into. “Don’t mess with it, Dylan. Seriously. No one opens that door.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “It’s just an old classroom. What, did someone die in there or something?”

“Nobody knows what happened, okay?” I chimed in. “But the last time someone tried to open it, they were never the same.”

Megan crossed her arms, her face serious. “People talk about Jamie Preston. It was, like, ten years ago. He was dared to open the door, and after he did, he—” she hesitated, “—he lost his mind. He was in and out of hospitals for years. His family moved away after that.”

Dylan chuckled, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious. This is just some urban legend. You guys are ridiculous.”

But there was something about the way his eyes lingered on the door that made me uneasy.

It was later that same day, when the halls were nearly empty, that I saw Dylan again. He was standing at the far end of the hall, right in front of Room 213. I froze, watching from behind the corner. My heart started to race as I realized what he was about to do.

The others weren’t with him. He was alone—just him, and the door.

“Dylan!” I shouted, rushing toward him. “Don’t!”

He turned, grinning like it was some kind of joke. “Come on, Ethan. It’s just a door. You can’t tell me you actually believe this crap.”

“I don’t know what I believe, but I’m telling you—don’t open it.” My voice cracked. I felt the weight of something cold pressing down on me, like the air had thickened around us.

He glanced back at the door, his hand hovering over the tarnished brass handle. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than usual, the light flickering overhead.

“You guys are all scared of nothing,” he said. And with that, he turned the knob.

There was no dramatic burst of air, no screams, no monstrous figures leaping out. Just the creaking of the hinges as the door inched open, revealing a dark, empty classroom.

But something was off. The darkness inside wasn’t normal—it was too thick, too complete, like it swallowed the weak light from the hall. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine, and I knew—something was in there, watching us.

Dylan squinted, trying to make out the room beyond. “See? Nothing but—”

Before he could finish, the door slammed shut with a violent thud.

“Jesus!” Dylan jumped back, his cocky grin fading. He looked at me, wide-eyed. “Did you see that?”

I nodded slowly, unable to speak. My heart was pounding in my chest.

Then we heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible scratching. At first, it sounded like it was coming from inside the walls, but it grew louder, more distinct. It wasn’t just random scratching anymore—it was rhythmic, deliberate.

Something… or someone… was scratching at the door from the inside.

“Dylan, let’s go,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

But he didn’t move. His hand hovered near the doorknob again, like he was drawn to it. His face had gone pale, the cockiness draining from him entirely.

And then, the scratching stopped. Complete silence.

Dylan stared at the door for a long, tense moment, before finally stepping back. “Okay,” he breathed, his voice shaky. “Okay, maybe we should just—”

Suddenly, a loud bang erupted from the other side of the door. It was like something heavy had thrown itself against it, rattling the frame.

We both jumped. I backed away, but Dylan was rooted to the spot, staring at the door as if in a trance.

“Ethan, I think…” his voice trailed off.

Before I could stop him, he reached out and yanked the door open again. The room was empty, just as before. But this time, the darkness wasn’t just dark—it was alive, swirling in slow, undulating patterns, like thick smoke.

And then, out of that suffocating blackness, something stepped forward.

At first, it looked like a person—tall, thin, with arms that dangled unnaturally at its sides. But as it moved closer, I realized it wasn’t human. Its face was featureless, except for two sunken hollows where eyes should have been, and its skin was stretched too tight, almost translucent, over bones that seemed to crack with every movement.

Dylan stood frozen in front of it, his mouth slightly open, too terrified to move.

“Dylan!” I screamed, grabbing his arm, but it was too late.

The thing reached out with long, bony fingers and touched his chest. The second it made contact, Dylan let out a choked scream, his body convulsing as if he was being electrocuted. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed to the floor, completely still.

I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I ran—down the hall, past the lockers, not stopping until I was outside, gasping for air.

The next day, the door to Room 213 was sealed again, just as it had always been. Dylan didn’t come back to school. They said he had some sort of seizure, but I knew better. Whatever was behind that door had gotten to him. It had taken him.

People still talk about Room 213, but no one mentions Dylan. Just like Jamie Preston, he became another cautionary tale, another warning whispered through the halls.

And now, when people ask about the door, I tell them one thing:

There’s only one rule.

Don’t open the door.