The Door That Shouldn't Be There

Some Doors Open Without Permission

It appeared on a Wednesday.

Right there, in the hallway between the linen closet and the wall where a small table used to sit—a door. Plain. Matte gray. No knob. No frame. Just a flat, narrow rectangle pressed into the plaster like it had always been there, only I hadn’t noticed.

I stood frozen, blinking at it. I walked past that hallway every day. I would’ve seen it. I was sure of it.

At first, I laughed, assuming it was part of the building’s renovation. Maybe the landlord hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe it led to an old closet they were reopening.

I texted my roommate.

me: did u see this door in the hallway??

jay: what door lol

me: come look

jay: bro I’m not even home, chill

I waited until he returned. When he walked into the apartment an hour later, I was sitting on the floor opposite the door, watching it like it might move.

“Okay, what’s the big deal?” he asked, dropping his keys.

“Look,” I pointed. “You really don’t see it?”

He stared. “At what? The wall?”

“No—the door.”

Jay squinted, took a step forward, then gave me a sideways look. “You good, man?”

I didn’t answer.

That night, I dreamed of knocking.

Three sharp knocks—knock. knock. knock.—woke me just before 3 a.m. My room was cold. I wrapped myself in the blanket and crept into the hallway.

It stood there, unchanged. No knob. No cracks. Just that silent, gray door embedded into my wall.

I leaned in and placed a hand on it.

Warm.

Not the cold surface of wood or paint. But a kind of living warmth, like the heat that radiates from skin. I snatched my hand back and retreated to my room, leaving the hallway light on.

By Friday, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I’d skip work emails, meals, even conversations. I kept checking the door. Watching. Waiting.

Once, I pressed my ear to it. Nothing.

Another time, I knocked.

Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Then, when I walked away, I heard something faint. A whisper.

I spun around, but the hallway was empty.

That weekend, Jay left for his parents' place. I didn’t tell him I’d been hearing voices behind the door. He already thought I was imagining things. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.

I sat across from it again on Sunday night, drinking cold coffee and breathing slowly.

“What do you want from me?” I whispered.

The word “Remember” appeared, scrawled in white chalk across the top of the door.

I hadn’t written it. No one else had been here.

I felt something shift in me.

Something old. Something buried.

When I was a child, I used to draw doors on the walls of my room. Not normal ones—tall, strange ones. I told my mother they were escape routes. She said I had too much imagination. My drawings disappeared when we moved after the fire.

But I never forgot the feeling—that somewhere, a door was waiting just for me.

I never thought I’d find it again.

And yet here it was.

By Monday, I made a decision.

I stood in front of the door with a penknife. I traced the edge, pressing gently, as if looking for a lock, a trigger, anything.

Suddenly, the door pulsed beneath my hand.

Then it opened.

Not with a creak or a slam—but silently, like a breath being held and released.

Inside, there was no room. No furniture. No wall.

Just darkness.

And a staircase spiraling down, lit faintly by an unseen source.

It smelled like earth, rain, and something else—like old paper and dreams you almost remember after waking.

I hesitated.

Then stepped inside.

The air grew heavier with every step. Not suffocating—just dense, like it was asking something of me.

At the bottom was a single wooden chair, and a photograph on the floor.

I picked it up.

A boy. Sitting on the floor of a room with chalk drawings all over the wall.

Me.

In the corner of the photo, someone had written in the same white chalk: “It’s time.”

I sat down.

The door behind me closed softly.

And for the first time in years, I felt… still.

Like I had arrived somewhere I was always meant to return to.

Not lost. Not broken.

Just... waiting.