Don't Open the Red Door

It was the only rule.

When I inherited my grandmother’s house in the village of Dagger Hollow, the solicitor gave me a ring of keys and a warning:

“Don’t open the red door in the cellar.”

I laughed at the time. A superstitious local myth, I thought. Something to spice up an otherwise dull estate transfer.

But the red door was real.

I found it on the third day, behind the old wine shelves in the root cellar.

Painted deep crimson, flaking at the edges. No knob. Just a heavy iron latch and seven rusted chains bolted into the stone walls around it.

A symbol was carved into the wood—a circle with a jagged spiral through it.

The chains rattled slightly, even though there was no draft.

I should have walked away.

That night, I heard noises.

From beneath the floorboards.

Dragging. Scraping. Sometimes, faint knocking.

Then came the dreams.

In them, I stood before the red door, shaking, hand on the latch. From behind it came a voice—soft, sweet, and terribly familiar.

“Let me out, love. It’s only me.”

My grandmother’s voice.

She had died alone in that house. They said she went mad at the end—talking to the walls, whispering to shadows. They found her body in the cellar, hand outstretched toward the red door.

On the seventh night, I woke up standing at the top of the cellar stairs.

Barefoot. Holding a key I didn’t recognize.

I threw the key into the river the next morning.

The sounds beneath the house grew louder.

Now it called me by name.

“Anna…”

“Anna, please…”

Always gentle. Always loving. Never angry.

That was the worst part.

I brought in a priest. A tired old man from the village who looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

When I told him about the red door, he went still.

“I’ve seen it,” he said. “I was here when they sealed it. Your grandmother was the last one to keep it closed.”

“What’s behind it?” I asked.

His eyes darkened. “A liar. A mimic. It knows what you love. It speaks in familiar voices, wears old faces. But it's not your grandmother.”

“Then what is it?”

He paused.

“Hungry.”

He tried to bless the cellar. As soon as he began praying, the red door groaned. The walls shook. One of the chains snapped and fell to the ground.

The priest fled. Never came back.

I tried leaving. Packed my things, got in the car, and drove.

But the road out of Dagger Hollow twisted in on itself. No matter how far I drove, I ended up back at the house.

The door was always waiting.

Now only four chains remained.

I don’t remember unchaining them. But every morning, another lay broken. Sometimes warm in my hands.

The voice behind the door changed. It began to sound like my mother. My best friend. My childhood dog.

All the things I’d loved and lost.

Each one begged to be let out. Just a crack. Just a peek.

I moved a dresser in front of the cellar door. Nailed it shut.

That night, I heard it whisper from behind my bedroom mirror:

“Don’t you miss us?”

This morning, I woke to find the final chain on the floor.

The latch hangs loose.

I’ve boarded the cellar, nailed every window shut. Written this in case I don’t survive the night.

If you’re reading this, and you find this house—burn it.

Don’t speak to the voice.

Don’t answer the knocking.

And whatever you do—

Don’t open the red door.

The End.