The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday

The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday

When reality itself starts opening and closing on you, how do you know which life is yours?

1. The first time I saw it, I thought I was just tired.

The hallway of my apartment building was the same beige corridor it had always been, lined with doors marked by peeling numbers and a faint smell of dust and laundry detergent. But halfway down, between Mrs. Klein’s unit and the fire exit, there was now another door.

It hadn’t been there yesterday.

At least, I was certain it hadn’t.

It was strange, too—sleek and black, unlike the others, with no number or peephole. Just a silver handle that glimmered under the dim hallway light. For several minutes, I stood frozen, as though the door were looking back at me, daring me to turn the handle.

When I finally did, I expected to find a broom closet, or maybe some maintenance storage.

But the second the door swung open, I stumbled forward into a version of my own apartment.

Only—it wasn’t quite mine.

The furniture was arranged differently. A desk sat where my bookshelf should have been. There were framed photographs of me at events I had never attended, standing beside people I didn’t recognize. In the kitchen, a calendar hung on the wall with my handwriting scribbled across it—reminders of meetings, birthdays, and appointments I had no memory of.

I backed out, heart racing, and closed the door.

When I opened it again, the space on the other side had changed. Now it was my apartment as it should have been—but bigger, cleaner, brighter, filled with art and books that I could only dream of affording. On the table was a manuscript with my name on the cover—“By Daniel Brooks.”

I stared at it for what felt like hours, the realization sinking in: each time I opened the door, it was showing me a different version of my life.

For the next week, I couldn’t stop visiting it.

The door became my secret obsession. Sometimes it opened to a version of my life where I was wildly successful—a professor, a published author, a musician performing to packed crowds. Other times, it revealed darker paths: a cluttered apartment filled with empty bottles, a life lived in loneliness and regret.

I told myself it was just a dream, some kind of hallucination born of stress and overwork. But every time I opened the door, the smell, the texture, the temperature of those other worlds felt too real.

One night, I opened it to find myself in a lavish high-rise apartment. My name was etched onto awards displayed on the walls. There were photos of me standing on red carpets, shaking hands with celebrities. And yet, I had no memory of how I’d gotten there.

The strangest part was this: in every world, I existed. Older, younger, happier, sadder, richer, poorer—but always there.

Until the night I opened it and found nothing.

It was late, around midnight, when I heard a faint humming noise in the hallway. I stepped out, and there it was—the door, waiting.

I turned the handle, expecting another life, another version of myself.

But the space beyond was not an apartment. It was… empty.

A long, white room stretched endlessly, walls bare and sterile, the air still and cold.

And there were no photographs. No books. No signs of me at all.

On the floor was a single folded newspaper, its date set ten years in the future. The headline read:

“Local Student Still Missing—Case Remains Unsolved.”

My name was beneath it. My picture too, staring back at me.

I staggered back, my mind spinning.

I tried to slam the door shut, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Something on the other side—something I couldn’t see—was pulling it open, inch by inch.

The humming grew louder, like a thousand voices whispering all at once.

And then I heard my own voice among them.

I haven’t opened the door since.

It’s still there in the hallway, waiting for me. I see it every time I pass, that black door with no number, glimmering under the weak lightbulb.

I’ve thought about telling someone—my neighbors, the landlord, the police—but what would I say? That a door showed me futures where I succeeded, failed, lived, and died? That one day, it showed me a future where I had vanished entirely?

Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I hear it creak open on its own. I hear footsteps in the hall, stopping right outside my door.

I don’t know if they’re my footsteps.

I don’t know if the door is waiting for me to walk through it—or if, one day, one of those other versions of me is going to step out.

And when that happens, I don’t know if there will still be a place for me here.