The Door That Wouldn't Open

Christina had heard the rumors about the Havenview Hotel, but she’d always dismissed them as nothing more than whispers in the dark. Old hotels had a way of accumulating odd stories, especially those perched on the edge of nowhere, like this one, nestled at the very tip of a lonely cliff. A weekend retreat was exactly what she and her friends needed to escape the pressures of their lives. They didn’t care about the strange looks from locals or the faded, cobwebbed sign that read "Vacancy."

But the moment they entered the lobby, Christina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The air was too still, the silence too thick. The receptionist, an elderly woman with skin like aged parchment and eyes that never blinked, offered them a thin smile. “Room 207,” she rasped, handing over the key. “Don’t go to the restrooms down the hall. They’ve been out of service for years.”

Christina brushed it off as a simple quirk of an old building. They were on the second floor anyway, far from the restrooms down the hall.

The room they were given was suffocating in its oppressive silence. The faint hum of the ventilation was the only sound, but even that felt unnatural. They settled in, the evening stretching on like molasses. After a while, Christina, feeling the uncomfortable weight of the room, excused herself to use the bathroom.

The restroom was at the end of the narrow hallway. It was dimly lit, and there was something... wrong about it. The door was an ancient wooden thing, its surface slick with decades of polish, but when Christina tried to turn the knob, it didn’t budge. She tried again, harder this time, but the door remained stubbornly closed, as though it were sealed shut by something more than just wood and lock.

“Odd,” Christina muttered, turning away. But just as she walked back toward her room, the door creaked open behind her. The sharp screech of hinges made her heart skip a beat. Slowly, she turned. The door was ajar. No one had come out.

She could feel her pulse racing as she took a cautious step forward, her breath shallow. A strange, cold wind gusted through the hallway, and the light above her flickered erratically.

The restroom was empty.

But something about the space felt alive, like it was watching her. The air felt thick with dread, the kind that clings to your skin.

She backed away, shaken, but before she could get back to her room, the door slammed shut with a force that rattled the walls.

She jumped back, heart hammering. The air grew colder, the hallway suddenly claustrophobic.

And that’s when she heard it. A faint, scraping sound. It came from behind the door.

Scrape... scrape... scrape...

Christina's breath caught in her throat. She stepped closer, her hand shaking as she reached for the knob again. The door felt warmer than it should have—unnaturally so. Sweat formed on her brow as she turned the handle.

This time, the door opened—slowly, with a groan of protest.

And what Christina saw made her blood freeze.

The restroom was no longer just a restroom.

It was an endless void. The walls stretched downward into an abyss that seemed to spiral into the earth itself. The far corner of the room was a black hole, its edges jagged, as though something—or someone—had been clawing at the space from the inside. A pungent, rotting stench wafted out, making her stomach lurch.

From the darkness, a shape shifted. Thin, fragile limbs. Twisted, broken joints. And the eyes—oh, the eyes—white as porcelain and vacant, hollow, staring directly at her, unblinking. The figure stepped forward, its motion jerky, unnatural, its body scraping against the walls of the void.

It shouldn’t have been moving.

She slammed the door shut and backed away, her breath ragged. Her mind was spinning. She ran down the hall, desperate to find her friends. She threw open the door to her room.

But they weren’t there.

The bed was empty. Their things were gone.

“Guys?” Christina called, her voice shaking, but the only sound that met her was the creaking of the building’s timbers. The clock on the wall ticked louder than ever before.

She spun around, and the restroom door was back. It was as if it had always been there, patiently waiting. But this time, the door wasn’t just ajar. It was wide open.

And from deep within, something was calling her.

Come in…

The voice was low, like a soft whisper. But it was everywhere. It was inside her, under her skin, crawling into her mind. The door waited. The void waited.

And then, without even thinking, she stepped forward.

It felt like drowning. Like being submerged in cold, stagnant water. Each step took her deeper into the room. She tried to turn back, but her body refused. She stumbled, her head swimming. The air was thick, suffocating, and the scraping sound returned—louder this time, like nails against a chalkboard.

In the darkness, the figure was closer. She could see its face now.

It was her.

But not her.

Its skin was peeling away in thin strips, like paper flaking from an old book. Its eyes—those hollow eyes—were wide and unblinking, gazing at her with a cold, infinite hatred.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” it whispered.

The door behind her slammed shut.

And just before everything went black, Christina realized one horrible truth:

No one ever leaves.

Not from this place. Not from Havenview.

The next morning, the receptionist was gone. The hotel had no record of a room 207.

Christina’s friends were never found. They were erased—like they’d never been there at all.

And the restroom?

It was still there.

Waiting.

Always waiting.