The Room Behind the Closet

When we moved into the old house, my son found a tiny door in his closet, barely big enough for a child to crawl through.

I told him it was just a crawlspace.

Until he started talking about "the boy who lives inside."

At night, I'd hear whispers, soft giggles.

One morning, I found muddy fingerprints all over the closet door—from the inside.

I nailed it shut.

But some nights, I still hear knocking, faint and desperate, begging to come out.