Do Not Open the Door

Do Not Open the Door

The wind howled through the cracks in the old wooden cabin, its mournful cry echoing off the desolate mountains. It was a stormy night, the kind where even the bravest of souls would rather stay inside, far away from the dangers lurking in the dark wilderness. Yet here I was, alone in my grandfather's secluded cabin, miles from the nearest town, with nothing but the faint glow of a dying fireplace for company.

It was supposed to be a quiet weekend retreat, a chance to escape the chaos of city life. My grandfather, a man of few words and many secrets, had passed away a month ago, leaving behind this dilapidated cabin and his cryptic parting words: "Never open the door after midnight."

I brushed it off as the ramblings of an old man. My grandfather had always been eccentric, believing in old legends and superstitions that no one else took seriously. I chalked it up to his rural upbringing, far removed from the rational world I knew. Still, as I sat by the fire, the storm raging outside, his words began to haunt me.

The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, its rhythmic sound blending with the crackling of the fire. Midnight was approaching, and an inexplicable unease settled over me. I tried to distract myself, flipping through an old book I'd found on the dusty shelf, but the words blurred together as my mind wandered back to my grandfather's warning.

Never open the door after midnight.

Suddenly, a loud knock shattered the silence. My heart leapt into my throat, and I froze, staring at the door. It was impossible—no one should be out here in this storm, miles from civilization. Yet, there it was again. A knock, slow and deliberate, as if whoever—or whatever—was on the other side was in no hurry.

I stood up, my legs trembling. My mind raced, trying to rationalize what was happening. Perhaps it was a lost traveler seeking shelter, or maybe a neighbour, though I knew the closest house was at least twenty miles away. But as the knock came again, louder this time, my grandfather's voice echoed in my head.

Never open the door after midnight.

I crept toward the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Who's there?" I called out, my voice shaky.

No answer.

The knock came again, three slow, deliberate raps that reverberated through the cabin. My hand hovered over the doorknob, but I hesitated. Something deep inside me screamed not to do it, as if every fibre of my being knew that opening that door would be a terrible mistake.

I backed away, the sound of my heartbeat deafening in the silent room. The knocking stopped, replaced by an eerie stillness. For a moment, I thought whoever was outside had left. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and sank onto the couch, my eyes never leaving the door.

But then, a faint scratching sound came from the other side, like nails dragging across the wood. My blood ran cold. It was no longer the sound of a person—this was something else. Something unnatural.

The scratching grew louder, more insistent, as if whatever was outside was trying to claw its way in. I backed into the corner of the room, my breath coming in short gasps. I glanced at the clock—12:10. Only ten minutes past midnight, but it felt like an eternity.

Suddenly, the door rattled violently, as if something heavy had thrown itself against it. The walls shook, the windows trembled, and the fire flickered, casting long, twisted shadows across the room. I covered my ears, trying to block out the noise, but it was everywhere, surrounding me, suffocating me.

I glanced toward the door, and in that moment, I saw it—a faint, dark shape pressing against the frosted window, barely visible in the dim light. It was tall, unnaturally thin, with long, spindly limbs that seemed to stretch impossibly far. I could feel its gaze, though I couldn't see its eyes, and a deep, primal terror rooted me to the spot.

Don't open the door. The voice in my head was no longer just my grandfather’s—it was my own. Every instinct, every shred of self-preservation screamed at me to stay away, to never let that thing inside.

But then, something happened that made my heart stop. I heard a voice—a small, trembling voice that sent chills down my spine.

"Please, help me."

It was a child's voice, muffled by the door, but unmistakable. "Please, I'm scared. Let me in."

My heart wrenched. I knew what I had heard before. I knew the warnings. But this... this was a child. I couldn't just leave a child out there, not in this storm. My mind battled with itself—what if it was a trick? What if this was what my grandfather had warned me about? But what if it wasn’t?

The knocking resumed, this time softer, almost pleading. "Please, it's so cold. I’m lost."

Tears welled in my eyes as I inched closer to the door. My hand trembled as it reached for the knob. The child's voice tugged at my heart, each word laced with fear and desperation. I couldn't just leave them out there.

Don't do it, my mind screamed, but I was already turning the knob, my heart breaking with every second.

The door creaked open, and the cold wind rushed in, blowing out the fire and plunging the room into darkness. I blinked, peering into the stormy night, but there was no one there. Just the swirling snow and the howling wind.

Suddenly, a hand—cold, skeletal—wrapped around my wrist. I gasped, pulling back, but it held me tight, stronger than anything human. My eyes widened in terror as I looked down, and there it was—a shadowy figure, its hollow eyes staring up at me with malice. It wasn’t a child. It had never been.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure pulled harder, dragging me toward the open door, its grip icy and relentless. I struggled, kicking and thrashing, but it was no use. The darkness was swallowing me whole.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The figure released me, and I fell to the floor, gasping for breath. I scrambled to my feet, slamming the door shut and locking it with trembling hands.

The storm outside raged on, but inside the cabin, everything was still—too still. My body shook with sobs as I huddled in the corner, clutching my knees to my chest. I had ignored the warning. I had opened the door.

Hours passed, though it felt like days, until finally, the storm began to subside. The first rays of dawn peeked through the windows, casting light on the destruction left behind. The fire was long dead, and the door was battered, its frame splintered and cracked. But I was alive.

I stood shakily, glancing at the clock. 6:00 AM. Morning had come, and with it, a sense of safety, though I knew the fear would never truly leave me.

As I prepared to leave the cabin, my heart heavy with the weight of what had happened, I noticed something on the door. Etched into the wood, deep and jagged, were the words: "Do not open the door."

I had learned too late that some warnings are not to be ignored, and some doors are never meant to be opened.