The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday

Start writing...For as long as I’ve lived in this house—almost five years now—I’ve never been afraid of it. It’s quiet, tucked away in a sleepy village just outside Sylhet, Bangladesh. The kind of place where nothing ever happens. Or so I thought.

It started three nights ago.

I woke up around 3:12 a.m. I remember the exact time because I glanced at my phone as I reached for a glass of water. The house was silent. But something felt... wrong. An uneasy silence hung in the air, thicker than usual. I felt a chill that didn't come from the fan.

As I turned my head, I noticed something strange—a door on the far end of the hallway. A door that wasn’t there before.

Now, I know this house. I know every creak, every crack in the wall. There has never been a door there. It wasn’t just new—it was out of place. Old, wooden, dark. The kind of door you’d see in haunted films, with an iron handle and carvings too worn to understand.

I thought maybe I was dreaming. I walked over, slowly. My steps felt heavier the closer I got. I touched the handle.

Ice-cold.

I hesitated, then turned the knob.

The door didn’t budge. Locked. Or sealed.

I went back to bed, convincing myself it was just sleep confusion. That maybe I was half-asleep, hallucinating. That I’d wake up and it’d be gone.

But the next morning—it was still there.

I asked my landlord if any renovation was going on. He looked at me confused. “Which door?” he asked. I showed him. But when we reached the hallway—it was gone.

I swear, I felt the blood drain from my face. There was nothing there but a smooth, blank wall. No sign a door had ever existed.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I waited. Sat in the hallway with my phone, camera ready. I waited until 3 a.m., heart pounding.

And then—it appeared again.

Just like before. Same eerie wood, same iron handle.

But this time, it was open. Just slightly.

I tried taking a photo—but my phone died instantly. Fully charged. Dead.

A cold breeze flowed from the slightly open door, even though there’s no ventilation in that hallway. And then—I heard whispers.

Faint. A female voice. Repeating a name I hadn’t heard in years: “Rafiq… Rafiq…”

My uncle’s name. He died fifteen years ago.

I ran back into my room and locked the door. I stayed awake until dawn, shivering. The whispers didn’t stop. I could hear them even through the walls, as if the very air was trying to speak to me. I kept my head under the covers, trying to block them out, but they echoed louder with each passing second. And then, it felt as though something was standing in the doorway, watching me.

The next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. It was as if I were being pulled into something I didn’t understand. I visited my grandmother. I told her everything. Her face went pale when I described the door. She didn’t say anything for a long time, then told me something that haunts me still.

When she was a child, her older brother—Rafiq—disappeared. In this same village. One night, he went out to the courtyard. Said he saw a door on the banyan tree. He was never seen again.

I never knew about this. My family never told me.

Since that night, I haven’t seen the door again. But every night at exactly 3:12 a.m., I wake up. And the hallway feels cold.

Sometimes I think I hear footsteps. Sometimes, I smell burnt wood.

I haven’t moved out yet. A part of me is terrified. But a deeper part wants to open the door completely next time.

Maybe it’s calling me. Maybe it always has.

There are times when I feel the urge growing stronger. Like a magnetic pull I can’t resist. Last night, when the clock struck 3:12, I felt it again—a strange compulsion to get up, to walk down that hallway. My mind screamed at me to stop, but my legs moved of their own accord. As I approached the door, the air seemed to thicken, the temperature dropping even further.

I reached for the handle. The door felt impossibly heavy in my hand. For a moment, I hesitated. But then, I turned it.

The door creaked open, and the same eerie whisper filled the air, calling my name.

“Rafiq… Rafiq…”

I stepped through.

What happened next—I don’t think I can fully explain. But I found myself standing in a place that wasn’t the hallway anymore. It was like I had entered a different world. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, and the only thing I could hear was my breath and my pounding heart.

And then, I saw him.

Rafiq. My uncle.

He was standing there, staring at me, his face pale and hollow, as if he hadn’t aged a day since he disappeared. He reached out to me.

I couldn’t move. My body was frozen in place.

And then—everything went black.