Don't Open Me

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. It stood alone, solitary, standing atop a cliff overlooking the village. It was not connected to any building, just the frame with a closed door standing solitary vigil over our village. It had always been there, always been closed. There was nothing behind it, people had walked all the way around it. The handle had rusted in the ocean air. In living memory, it had never been opened. Now it yawned ajar.

An eerie green glowing mist soaked through the open door, crawling its way down the cliff-face. Unnatural noises could be heard by any the greenish mist neared, sucking, slithering sounds that only terrified the listener. The mist separated, sending tendrils out by the dozen. Each misty tentacle sought out a living person, wrapped around their necks, choking the life from their frail bodies as they were lifted by their heads and dragged up the cliff-face. Towards the door. Through the door.

Survivors would scramble up the cliff the following day to find the door just as shut as ever before, the only sign that anything had happened the bloody marks where misty tendrils had bashed and dragged the door’s victims against the cliffs uncaring of their comfort. A puddle of congealing gore lay at the base, seeping out from nowhere.

The survivors went back down the cliff, save one. This person grabbed a handful of coagulating blood, smearing words onto the wood of the door:

DON’T OPEN ME.