Behind the Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. My father told me that over and over from the day I could twist a knob. The first time he said it, I had just reached for it—three-year-old me, toddling along and getting into mischief. He gave me a firm smack on the back of my tiny hand and pointed a stiff index finger as he yelled, “Don’t you ever open that door!”

I think I cried and shook for a good thirty minutes after that. I had never seen my father so angry, the fire in his eyes sparking a new fear in my heart. After that day, I dared not get within five feet of it. But I often stared at it, wondering what could be in there that my father didn’t want me to see. And to this day, I wish my curiosity had never been satisfied.

At nine years old, I stopped being a heavy sleeper. Noises woke me in the middle of the night, whether it was wind or a creaking floorboard. One night, I heard thuds coming from downstairs. I crept out of bed, tiptoeing down the stairs in the dim light. The noises were coming from behind the forbidden door. As I drew closer, muffled screams and flashes of blue light flickered from beneath the doorway. But that wasn’t the only thing that came out. After a few seconds of frozen terror, the crimson-red liquid began leaking from under the door, slowly creeping toward my bare feet.

Snapping out of my trance, I bolted to my room and wished away what I saw. Not long after, my father was taken away by police. A serial killer no more.