The Locked Door That Shouldn’t Be There

The Locked Door That Shouldn’t Be There

By Kippler

I’ve lived in this apartment for nearly three years. It’s not huge—just a one-bedroom in a quiet, aging building on the edge of town. Nothing fancy. Beige walls, creaky floorboards, and a radiator that groans like it’s possessed every winter. But it’s mine.

I know every inch of this place. Or at least, I thought I did.

It happened last Thursday night. I remember because I had just finished a 12-hour shift at the hospital and came home exhausted, half-dead on my feet. I dumped my scrubs on the floor, grabbed a sandwich, and collapsed onto the couch with a blanket and the vague hope of not waking up until noon.

Around 2:17 a.m.—I remember the time exactly because I checked my phone when it happened—I woke up to a soft, metallic click.

The kind of click a lock makes.

At first, I thought it came from outside, maybe the apartment above or the hallway. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and listened. Silence. I was about to chalk it up to exhaustion and lie back down when I noticed something strange.

There was a door.

A door where there had never been a door before.

It was on the far wall of my living room, next to the radiator. Just a plain, narrow wooden door with a brass handle and an old-fashioned keyhole—one of those long, narrow kinds you see in antique furniture. The paint didn’t match the rest of the wall. It was slightly darker, like it had been there for years but hidden under a layer of wallpaper.

I stared at it for a long time, unsure if I was fully awake. I walked over, touched the surface. It was real. Solid. Cold. My fingers brushed over the keyhole—dusty, unused. The doorknob wouldn’t turn. It was locked.

I backed away slowly. This made no sense. I’d walked past that wall a thousand times. There was never a door. Not once.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Instead, I sat on the couch, watching it. Waiting for it to do… something. I don’t know what I was expecting—movement, noise, maybe the knob turning on its own. Nothing happened. Just the door, sitting there like it had always belonged.

The next morning, I called my landlord. He brushed me off.

“There’s no door in that unit,” he said. “You’re on the end. That wall faces the alley. Solid brick behind it.”

I sent him a picture. He didn’t respond.

I tried knocking. Nothing. I put my ear to it—no sound at all. Not even the hum of pipes or walls settling. Just stillness.

The weirdest part? No one else seemed to see it.

I had a friend over the next day—Jake. I didn’t tell him anything, just asked him to hang out and casually gestured to the wall.

“You see anything weird?” I asked.

He looked, blinked, and shrugged. “What? The radiator?”

He didn’t see the door.

I asked him to touch the wall. His hand went right through the door like it wasn’t there. He swore I was messing with him.

I wasn’t.

By the third night, I stopped sleeping. Every hour, I checked the door. It remained locked. But something began to change.

The smell.

It started faint—like mildew and old wood. But then it turned rancid, like rotting meat. The smell seeped through the edges of the door, thick and warm, like breath.

That night, at 3:03 a.m., the doorknob rattled.

Just once.

A single, sharp jolt, like someone on the other side gave it a quick twist. I froze. My heart pounded so loud I thought it might wake the building.

I whispered, “Who’s there?”

No response.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I went to the kitchen, grabbed a steak knife, and jammed it into the space between the door and the frame. The blade went in almost two inches before hitting resistance.

Whatever was behind the door, it wasn’t a wall.

I bought a lock the next morning and installed it on my side of the door. Useless, maybe, but it made me feel like I had some control.

Then last night, everything escalated.

I was in bed, dozing, when I heard it.

A knock.

Three soft knocks. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Followed by something I will never forget.

A voice—raspy, slow, like someone hadn’t used their vocal cords in years—whispered from the other side:

“Let me out.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat had closed up.

The door hasn't rattled since, but the smell is worse. And this morning, I noticed something new:

The lock I installed on my side?

It was unlatched.