Spectral Song

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. I’d been warned of its alluring song when I bought this house.

The realtor told me it was a doorway to hell.

The previous owner claimed it stole his wife.

I thought they’d both lost their senses, but I heeded the warnings nonetheless.

It was a late winter’s night when the door finally called to me. Tucked in bed, a faint melody sifted into my ears. It was mournful and deep, with notes that plucked at the strings of my heart and pled for me to weep. As it settled heavily in my chest, I knew I must make it stop.

Trudging down the stairs in my pajamas, I shivered at the chill winter air. Muttering about the shoddy insulation, I followed the sound. The closer I grew, the more my skin prickled with ice.

The door looked the same as always, but it called for me. Begged me to open it.

Warnings forgotten, my hand closed around the rimy handle, twisting slowly. The door was little more than a centimeter open when a phantasmic hand pushed through to clutch the wood. Its fingers were little more than bones, blackened like they’d been dipped in tar. It pushed the door open, its other hand grasping my wrist. Its touch was so cold I forgot how to breathe. My skin began to disintegrate beneath its fingers, though all I could do was watch in frozen agony.

A head emerged, gaunt and wrapped in ephemeral cloth woven with soot. Fog billowed through the door, amplifying the discordant song until my ears bled.

The wraith pulled me through the door, shutting it tight. As my skin flaked away, it swathed me in darkness until I existed in the abyss as its equal.