Don’t Open That Door

Every summer, my parents sent me to my nani’s house in Ratnapur, a quiet village that smelled of wet earth, fresh mangoes, and something else—something I couldn’t name back then.

Ratnapur was small, surrounded by endless fields and a silence so heavy that you could almost hear your heart beating louder than anything else. Nani’s house stood quietly at the village edge— the kind of place forgotten by time, with cracked walls, squeaky doors, and the scent of old incense lingering in every corner.

But what caught my attention from day one was the huge neem tree in her backyard—standing tall, its thick roots crawling deep into the earth like secrets buried long ago.

It wasn’t the tree itself that scared me.

It was the door.

A perfectly carved wooden door built into the trunk.

I thought my mind was playing tricks on me the first time I saw it. But no— it was real. Too real.

When I asked nani about it, “Don’t go near that tree,” she said quietly. “Some doors shouldn’t be opened.”

That night, I found it hard to sleep. Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed, or maybe it was how quiet the village got after sunset—where even the wind seemed afraid to blow.

And then… I heard knocking.

Three faint knocks.

I thought it was a dream until I looked out the window.

The door on the tree

It was slightly open.

I told nani the next morning. Her hands trembled while pouring my tea. That’s when the brother I never knew I had.

He was ten when he disappeared—last seen under the neem tree.

They only found one of his red slippers lying beside the trunk.

No one spoke about him after that.

No photographs. No memories.

Until now.

Two days later, curiosity—or maybe something darker—pulled me toward the backyard when nani went to the temple.

The air had grown heavier,

The door in the tree looked older that day, its wood splintered, almost…decaying.

I don’t know what possessed me to touch it, but the moment my fingers grazed the surface, everything changed.

Then I saw him.

A boy sitting in the dark corner, his head low.

"W—Who are you?" I whispered.

He looked up.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

His face was mine—only younger. And on his foot?

The same red slipper nani had told me about.

“I waited,” he said softly, eyes hollow, “Someone had to come.”

I wanted to scream, but my throat felt like it was closing.

“I’m free now. You shouldn’t have opened the door.”

Everything went black.

I couldn’t scream. My body wasn’t listening.

He stood up, tilting his head. “You know how it works, don’t you?”

“What?” My voice barely came out.

“You took my place.”

Something yanked me back.

I woke up in my bed.

Nani was crying. Holding me so tightly it hurt.

“You disappeared for two days,” she sobbed.

I tried to tell her—about the door, the boy, the red slipper. But...

The next morning, we left Ratnapur. I never went back.

Nani died the next winter. The house was locked, But sometimes, at exactly 3:00 AM, I hear it again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

And last week, on my birthday, a package arrived.

Inside was an old, faded red slipper.

No name. No sender.

Just a small note.

“Tell nani I’m free now. She owes me nothing.”

I don’t know who sent it.

“It’s your turn now.”