The Door That Whispers in the Dark

Jaclyn had always felt like an outsider, never belonging anywhere. The feeling gnawed at her constantly—a need to escape, to find a place where she could be alone, in peace. The house on the edge of Applegate promised just that: a secluded corner of the world, far from the noise of everything and everyone. It was ancient, worn with time, but that didn’t matter. To Jaclyn, it was perfect.

From the moment she crossed the threshold, though, something felt wrong. The air was thick, suffocating, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Shadows clung to the walls, and the silence wasn’t calming—it was heavy. It felt as if the house was waiting for something... waiting for her.

Her first night in the house, Jaclyn collapsed into bed, too tired from the move to think about the unsettling vibe. The exhaustion pulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep. But in the dead of night, something woke her—a dull groan. Her eyes snapped open. It sounded like footsteps, heavy and slow, coming from above. She froze, her heart pounding. The noise drifted down from the attic, a shuffling, uneven rhythm. She told herself it was just the house settling, an old building groaning under its own weight. But deep down, it felt like something else—something alive. She lay there, tense and still, until sleep reluctantly pulled her under again.

The second night, the sound came again, but this time it wasn’t just groaning wood. It was a soft, breathy whisper. The kind of whisper that tickles the back of your neck, like someone is leaning in far too close. Jaclyn’s skin prickled as the sound slithered through the air, creeping up from the attic and swirling around her. It wasn’t words—not yet—but it was full of menace, a promise of something terrible. She lay frozen, clutching her blanket like a shield, eyes wide in the darkness. The whisper was coming from the same place—above, from the attic.

By the third night, Jaclyn was a wreck. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. The whispers had grown louder, more insistent, and now they weren’t just sounds from the attic—they were in her head. The house seemed to pulse around her, as if its very walls were breathing. Shadows seemed to stretch and move, twisting into shapes that darted just out of sight. Her heart pounded constantly, and every creak, every whisper, sent waves of terror crashing over her. It felt like the house was alive and hungry for her.

The attic door remained stubbornly locked. She had tried it the day before, yanking and pulling until her hands ached. No matter what she did, it wouldn’t budge. It was as though something on the other side was keeping it sealed, holding it shut. But each time she walked past the stairs, she felt it—the presence. It was there, waiting, watching. And it was getting closer.

On the fourth night, the whispers weren’t whispers anymore—they were screams. A cacophony of voices filled her head, overlapping, shouting, shrieking. Jaclyn could barely think through the noise. It was deafening, a relentless pounding in her skull. The house was closing in on her, the walls bulging, the air thick with something rotten, something **alive**. She knew it wasn’t just in her head now. Something was up there in the attic, and it was waiting for her.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Armed with a flashlight, Jaclyn stumbled toward the attic stairs. Each step felt like walking into her own grave. The air grew colder the higher she climbed, her breath visible in the darkness. The house was humming, vibrating with tension, as if it was excited. As if it knew what was coming.

The attic door, locked and stubborn for days, now swung open easily at her touch.

Cold air rushed out, carrying with it the stench of rot and decay. Jaclyn gagged, covering her mouth, but she couldn’t stop herself from stepping inside. The darkness swallowed her whole, her flashlight flickering weakly against the shadows. It felt like the house was alive, the walls breathing, closing in on her.

At the top of the stairs was another door, smaller and blackened by soot, like it had been burned long ago. The whispers were gone now—replaced by silence so thick it pressed against her eardrums. Her heart thundered in her chest as she reached for the door.

It opened before she could touch it.

Beyond the door was not another room, but an endless void. Pure blackness stretched out in front of her, an abyss that seemed to breathe. And then she saw it—something moved in the darkness. A figure, hunched and twisted, stepped forward, its limbs too long, its body grotesquely stretched as though it had been pulled apart and poorly stitched back together. Its hollow eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, lifeless but watching her.

The thing’s mouth opened wide—far too wide—revealing rows of jagged, rotting teeth. A foul, wet sound escaped its throat, a mixture of growling and whispering that sent ice down Jaclyn’s spine. It knew her. It had always known her.

With a sudden, jerking motion, the creature lunged. Jaclyn screamed, stumbling back, her flashlight spinning across the floor. The house seemed to shift around her, the walls warping, closing in. The figure’s grotesque limbs reached for her, its sharp fingers clawing at the air. She scrambled to her feet and bolted down the stairs, her heart pounding in her throat.

She ran out the front door and into the night, but she knew the truth. She couldn’t escape.

The whisper had followed her. It would always follow her.

She had opened the door. Now, it would never close.