The Room My Father Told Me Never to Enter

Growing up, there was always one rule in my house: “Never open the door at the end of the hallway.”

My father was strict about it. He never explained why, just repeated it with a tone that left no room for questions.

When I was little, I thought maybe it was a storage room. As I grew older, curiosity gnawed at me. Why would a simple storage room need so much secrecy?

The door was old, its paint cracked, its lock rusted. Sometimes at night, I swore I heard faint scratching noises coming from inside.

But whenever I asked, my father’s face darkened.

“Stay away from that room. Promise me.”

And I always nodded, though deep inside, I wanted to know what he was hiding.

The Night of the Accident

When I turned twenty, everything changed.

My father was in a car accident. He survived but was bedridden, weak and in pain. I spent most nights sitting by his side. One evening, his eyes fluttered open and he grabbed my hand with surprising strength.

“If I die,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “don’t go into that room. No matter what you hear. No matter what you see.”

His words chilled me. But three days later, he passed away.

The night after his funeral, the house felt colder than usual. I couldn’t sleep, so I walked down the hallway. My footsteps echoed against the wooden floor, and my eyes fell on the forbidden door.

To my shock, it was slightly open.

The First Glimpse

I pushed the door just a little, peering inside. The smell hit me first—damp, moldy, like something had been rotting for years. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering faintly.

Inside, the room looked empty except for a wooden chair placed right in the center. But the air was heavy, suffocating.

Then I noticed something carved on the walls—deep scratches, like someone had clawed at the wood. Some looked like words, though most were unreadable. The ones I could read made my blood run cold:

“LET ME OUT.”

“I’M STILL HERE.”

My heart raced. I shut the door immediately, but that night I couldn’t stop hearing faint knocking sounds coming from inside.

The Whispering Voice

The following nights, the knocks grew louder. Sometimes, I heard whispers—soft, broken, like a voice calling my name.

“Daniel…”

It was my father’s voice.

I froze every time. He was gone. I had watched him lowered into the ground. But the voice on the other side of the door sounded so real.

By the seventh night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the old house key, determined to open the room fully and end the torment.

The Truth Inside

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open.

This time, I stepped inside. The air was colder than outside, biting at my skin. The chair in the center of the room was different now—it wasn’t empty.

Someone was sitting there.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but as the bulb steadied, I saw a figure that looked exactly like my father. Same eyes. Same clothes from the day of his burial.

He raised his head slowly, his lips curling into a faint smile.

“You shouldn’t have come in,” he whispered.

Before I could move, the door slammed shut behind me. The bulb flickered violently, and the room spun in darkness.

The last thing I remember was his hand—cold and rough—grabbing mine.

The Aftermath

I woke up hours later on the hallway floor, the door sealed tight as if it had never opened. My heart pounded as I ran outside into the night air.

The next morning, I brought a hammer and tried to break the door down. But when I reached the end of the hallway, something was wrong.

The door was gone.

Just a blank wall where it had always been.

To this day, I still hear knocks at night. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can feel that same cold hand gripping mine again.

Every family has secrets, but some doors should never be opened. If you were told never to enter a room, would you obey—or would curiosity destroy you too?