The Forbidden Door

The Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

When Jenna agreed to house-sit for Mrs. Cooper, she hadn’t thought much of it. A free stay in an old countryside house, far from the noise of the city, seemed like a perfect chance to unwind. She was a city girl at heart, but the idea of a quiet week, with only the sound of nature outside and a stack of books to keep her company, sounded like a dream. So when Mrs. Cooper mentioned the basement door in passing, she barely paid attention.

"The house is pretty old, dear," Mrs. Cooper had said in that gentle, grandmotherly voice. "There's only one thing you need to remember: don’t open the basement door." She smiled, though the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. "It's… an old house rule. Best to leave it be."

Jenna had laughed then, assuming it was some quirky superstition. The Coopers were old-fashioned folks, after all, the kind who believed in preserving tradition. "No problem," she had promised, thinking little of it as she gathered the keys and waved goodbye.

But now, standing in the dimly lit living room on her first night alone, the words echoed in her mind with an unsettling weight. The house, though charming in the daylight, had taken on a more ominous quality as dusk settled. Shadows stretched longer, filling the corners of the room, and every creak of the old wooden floors seemed louder in the silence.

Jenna tossed a blanket over her lap, trying to lose herself in a mystery novel, but found her attention drifting again and again toward the hallway. The basement door was at the end of it, just out of sight. Every now and then, she thought she heard a sound—a faint scratching, or perhaps just the groaning of the old pipes. She shook her head. It’s an old house, she reminded herself. Old houses make noises.

But the sound didn’t stop.

A soft, almost rhythmic scrape. It came and went, like something brushing against the wood from the other side.

Don’t open the door.

She repeated the rule in her head as if to calm herself. Mrs. Cooper had been serious. It was strange—maybe even ridiculous—but serious. Why would anyone warn someone about something so specific unless there was a reason?

Jenna set her book down and stood, deciding that she would walk past the basement door just to prove to herself how silly she was being. The house was silent, save for the occasional groan of the beams overhead, but nothing out of the ordinary. She crept down the hallway, her slippers barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. The basement door came into view, unremarkable and old. Dark wood, chipped paint, a rusty handle—there was nothing special about it at all.

She hesitated, staring at the door longer than she intended. The scratching had stopped, and the house was now still, almost too still. Jenna’s pulse quickened, the quiet making her aware of her own breathing, which seemed loud in the small space.

"You're imagining things," she whispered to herself, giving the door a final glance before turning away.

Just as she began to walk back toward the living room, a sound froze her in place. It was unmistakable this time. A soft, gentle knock from the other side.

Her heart skipped a beat. She spun around, eyes wide, staring at the door.

Another knock.

This time, accompanied by a faint, almost childlike whimper.

"Help me…"

Jenna took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. The voice was soft, pleading, as if from someone too weak to speak louder. It couldn’t be real. No one had been in the house. She had checked all the rooms earlier. And Mrs. Cooper hadn’t mentioned anyone else staying here—hadn’t even mentioned a basement occupant or anything of the sort.

"Please… help…"

The voice again, a little louder now. It sent a chill down Jenna’s spine.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She shouldn’t. Every instinct told her not to go near that door. And yet, what if someone really was in trouble? What if there was someone trapped down there—maybe a kid who had wandered into the house, or an old tenant Mrs. Cooper hadn’t mentioned?

She took a slow, cautious step forward.

The crying continued, pitiful and weak. Whoever—or whatever—was behind that door sounded desperate.

Her hand hovered over the knob now. The metal was cold to the touch. A trickle of doubt wormed its way through her mind, but then the voice spoke again, this time clearer, more insistent.

"Help me! Please… it’s dark. I can’t… I can’t get out…"

Jenna’s stomach knotted. She couldn’t just leave someone in there. Not if they were trapped. It went against every instinct of decency she had. She would just open it for a second. Just a peek.

Her fingers tightened around the knob, turning it slowly.

The door creaked open.

The basement beyond was pitch black, a darkness so thick it swallowed the dim light of the hallway behind her. The smell of damp earth and decay wafted up from the void, making her gag.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice shaky.

Silence. No more crying, no voice at all. Only the cold, oppressive air that seemed to cling to her skin.

Jenna swallowed, leaning forward just enough to peer into the darkness, straining her ears for any sound. Then, out of the blackness, a figure emerged. Pale, thin, almost skeletal. A child—or what looked like one. Its eyes gleamed in the dark, wide and unblinking.

"Thank you for opening the door," the voice said, but it wasn’t soft anymore. It was sharp, cold, and wrong—so wrong. The figure’s lips didn’t move, but the voice echoed all around her, louder now, filling the space.

Jenna stepped back, but it was too late.

The door slammed shut behind her, and the darkness swallowed her whole.

The next morning, Mrs. Cooper returned to her house, as she always did after letting someone stay. The door was locked, as expected, and everything seemed in order.

Except this time, she paused by the basement. A soft, rhythmic scratching was coming from the other side of the door.

But she already knew what she’d find.

There had been only one rule: don’t open the door.

And like so many before her, Jenna hadn’t listened.

Mrs. Cooper sighed and turned away, leaving the scratching behind. It would quiet down eventually. It always did.

After all, the house had rules. And the house always kept what it was owed.