Disobedience

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

But I did open it.

How could I have known what was behind the door? I was only three years old, an innocent youngster playing with my toy cars, when I heard the noise. I had been advised not to open it. But kids are curious, aren't they? Especially when the adults say no.

As the sound became louder, I paused, my little car in mid-race, peering at the door. A light knock, followed by a quiet scratching. Perhaps it was a cat? Or a lost puppy? The concept comforted me, but I knew deep inside that we didn't have a pet.

I stepped over, my small hand reaching for the doorknob and paused for a second. My mother's voice repeated in my head: "Do not open that door."

But curiosity prevailed. I turned the handle, and the door creaked open, emitting a wet, rotten odor.

I peered inside and saw nothing but stairs disappearing into darkness. The crying intensified, pushing me down. At the bottom, a faint green glow illuminated the corner. A figure sat there rocking back and forth, sobbing into the air.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

It came to a stop. It rotated slowly, revealing a distorted face with black, bottomless eyes and an overly toothy grin.

"Come and play," it growled.

I screamed and scrambled up the steps as it creeped towards me. Its skeletal fingers scraped the floor as its chuckle echoed behind me. I barely made it out and slammed the door shut. The handle rattled briefly before going silent.

I never informed anyone. At night, I hear a faint scratching at the door and a voice murmuring, "Come play…"

I don't open the door anymore.