The Apartment with the Violet Door

Mara lifted her head from the cracked spine of the novel and blinked at the violet door across the hallway. It hadn’t been violet when she moved in two weeks ago. It had been the color of chalky bone, peeling at the corners, like all the other doors in this aging apartment complex on the edge of downtown. Now it glowed with a muted, rich shade of purple, as if it had been painted in the night by hands too quiet to be heard.

She shut the book. She didn’t want to read anymore.

The building’s radiator clanked like metal teeth gnashing. Downstairs, the lobby smelled faintly of burned coffee and lemon cleanser. Mara had chosen this apartment for its anonymity, its clean lines and lack of history. Or so she’d thought. When you’re trying to disappear from your own life, you look for places without fingerprints.

But that door—

It seemed to pulse under the hallway’s flickering lights.

She set her mug on the windowsill. The city outside pressed against the glass: a neon liquor store sign, a boarded-up bookstore, a man pushing a shopping cart full of aluminum cans. It was February, and the cold seeped into her palms even through her sweater sleeves.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister popped up: Have you unpacked yet?

She didn’t reply. Her sister meant well, but Mara didn’t want to talk about the old apartment or the person she used to be. She didn’t want to talk about how fast she’d left, how little she’d taken.

Another sound—a low thud—came from the hallway. She flinched.

Mara slipped her feet into her slippers and opened her door.

The hallway smelled faintly of paint, but it wasn’t fresh. It was older, like dried violets crushed between book pages. The door across from hers remained closed. Its knob, once tarnished brass, now looked black and smooth like obsidian. She ran her fingers over it—cold as river stones.

She whispered, “Hello?”

Nothing.

Then the doorknob turned itself a fraction of an inch.

Mara jerked her hand back.

“Okay, no,” she muttered under her breath, retreating into her apartment. “I’m not doing this tonight.”

She locked her door, double-checked it, then leaned her back against it, heart hammering.

At 2:14 a.m., she woke to the sound of a soft humming.

Not a tune she recognized. Something old, minor-key, curling through the thin walls like smoke. She pressed her ear to the plaster. The sound came from the violet door.

Her heart thudded.

She thought of calling the building’s manager but remembered how indifferent he’d been when she’d asked about the leaking faucet. She imagined his voice: Probably just a tenant playing music, ma’am.

Except the apartment behind the violet door had been empty when she moved in.

She’d asked.

Mara slipped on her coat and opened her door.

The hallway was darker than it should have been. The ceiling light above the violet door flickered once and went out completely.

The humming continued.

She crossed the hall and, before she could talk herself out of it, knocked three times.

Silence.

Then the knob turned slowly, and the door opened inward on its own.

A rush of warm air scented with lavender and something metallic washed over her. The apartment inside was dim but not entirely dark—light shimmered as if reflected off water. The floor appeared wet, slick like black glass.

“Mara,” a voice said softly from inside.

She froze. “Who are you?”

“Come see,” the voice whispered.

She stepped back, but her heel caught on the hallway carpet. She gripped the doorframe. “No,” she said, but her voice cracked. “I’m not—”

“You’ve already knocked,” the voice said. “You opened the way.”

The violet door swung wider, revealing a corridor longer than it should have been, lined with mirrors that did not reflect her face. Instead, each mirror showed a different version of her: one smiling with a child on her hip, one older and lined with grief, one holding a gun, one holding a bouquet of daisies.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“Choices,” the voice said.

Mara tried to slam the door, but it refused to move.

“Choose, and you may enter,” the voice said. “Or leave and remain as you are.”

She stared at the mirrors. Each Mara looked back at her, eyes glistening with silent pleas or warnings.

She thought of the life she’d left behind—the man who’d shouted at her in the kitchen, the job that had ground her down, the sense of never being enough. She thought of her sister’s texts, her mother’s distant voice.

“I don’t want any of this,” she said, her voice rising. “I just wanted somewhere quiet!”

The mirrors shuddered. The voice softened. “Quiet is not life. Quiet is a hallway with no doors.”

Her hands trembled. “If I pick one?”

“You will live it,” the voice said. “But you may never return to the hallway.”

Mara backed up, her pulse thunderous in her ears. She looked once more at the mirrors—the Mara with the bouquet looked peaceful, the Mara with the child looked tired but happy, the Mara with the gun looked fierce, unbroken.

She closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

The door swung shut with a sound like a breath being drawn.

When she opened her eyes, the violet door was chalky bone again.

The next morning, her sister texted again: You okay?

Mara stared at the screen, thumb hovering. She glanced at the door across the hall. It remained dull, ordinary, lifeless.

She typed back: I’m here. Still unpacking.

Her hand shook as she set the phone down.

Somewhere in the walls, faint as a heartbeat, she heard the humming begin again.