The Door That Shouldn’t Exist

It was 2:17 a.m. when Noah woke up to that sound again — a low creak, like a whispering hinge somewhere down the hallway. He sat up, heart pounding, his room dimly lit by the silver light leaking through the blinds. The old house had its noises, yes, but this one… this one was different.

He lived alone now. His parents had passed years ago, and the house — his childhood home — had been empty until he moved back to “restore” it. At least, that’s what he told himself. Maybe he just couldn’t let it go.

That sound came again — longer this time, followed by a soft thud.

Noah threw off the blanket and stepped into the hallway. His feet met the chill of the wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of dust and something… older.

The hallway stretched before him, narrow and dark. He knew every creak of those boards, every corner of that corridor — or so he thought. But tonight, something felt off. There was an unfamiliar stillness, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Halfway down the hall, he stopped.

There it was.

A door.

Right between the guest room and the linen closet — a door that had never been there before.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the dark, or his half-awake mind stitching shadows into shapes. But when he reached out and touched the handle — cold, metal, real — he knew it wasn’t imagination.

The wood was rough, old, splintered. Unlike the polished oak of the other doors in the house. And the air around it felt… wrong. Heavy. Almost humming.

He should have walked away. He should have gone back to bed and convinced himself it was nothing.

But curiosity — that human curse — won again.

The handle turned with a soft click.

Inside was darkness. Not just the absence of light — it was thicker than that, like a curtain of ink. But then, somewhere in that void, something flickered. A faint, pulsing glow, deep and slow, like the heartbeat of the house itself.

Noah leaned closer. “Hello?” His voice cracked against the silence.

No reply. Just the low hum of something alive — or pretending to be.

He stepped inside.

The air changed. Cold rushed against his skin. The floorboards beneath him creaked — or sighed. The hallway behind him was gone. All that remained was the door, now closed tight.

The glow ahead grew stronger, illuminating fragments — an old chair, a mirror, a child’s toy, all scattered across a dusty floor. And then, the sound of breathing.

Slow. Uneven. Not his own.

He turned toward the mirror. It stood tall and cracked, its reflection hazy. But there was something — someone — standing just behind him in it.

Noah spun around. Empty.

The breathing grew louder, ragged, as if it were right beside his ear. He stumbled back, heart racing, eyes darting across the room — and then he saw it.

Carved into the wall behind the mirror, barely visible beneath layers of grime, were the words:

“Do not open what was meant to stay shut.”

The light pulsed faster now, the hum deepening into a sound like a heartbeat echoing through the walls. The air thickened.

Noah reached for the door — but it was gone. Only smooth wall.

Panic surged. “Let me out!” he shouted, pounding on the woodless surface.

Then, a whisper. Soft. Close. Almost tender.

“You shouldn’t have opened it.”

A cold hand brushed his shoulder. He froze. The breath left his lungs. Slowly, he turned — and what he saw made his knees buckle.

It was himself.

Or something wearing his face. Pale, hollow-eyed, a faint, cruel smile twisting its lips.

He stumbled back. “What—what are you?”

The figure tilted its head. “You let me out.”

The walls began to ripple like water, the floor bending, distorting. The glow from the mirror turned red, flooding the room with trembling light. Noah screamed, clawing at the walls — and suddenly the door burst open, flinging him into the hallway.

He landed hard. The air was still again. The house silent. The door — gone.

Just blank wall.

He sat there for what felt like hours, gasping, trembling, staring at the spot where it had been. Finally, he stood, wiped the sweat from his face, and whispered, “It’s over.”

But as he turned to leave, he saw something that made his stomach drop.

At the far end of the hallway… a faint line of light, shining from the floorboards.

Like the outline of a door.

Moral:

Some doors aren’t meant to be opened. Not because they lead somewhere — but because they let something out.