Some Doors Should Never Be Opened-Even A Little

Emma noticed the keyhole the first night she was in the old house. It was on the door at the end of the hallway — solid oak, locked tight, no knob, just a small brass keyhole no bigger than her pinky nail. The realtor had mentioned the room was “sealed off” due to renovations, but Emma had bought the house cheap and as-is. She didn't think much of it.

Until the scratching started.

At first, it was faint, like nails on the opposite side. Just... persistent, not frantic. like when a person uses their finger to make circles in the wood. The sound began at 2:17 in the morning each night. And every night, it stopped at 2:31 exactly.

Emma did her best to ignore it. lied to herself and said wind or rats. But the sound became more focused. more thoughtful. Then the whispering began.

Not phrases. Simply exhale. Exhales that are drawn out and rattling, right up against the door's other side. Emma pressed her ear against the oak the third night. Her skin was stung by the freezing temperature. She heard something on the other side, slow and heavy, pacing. Then it ceased. just where she was standing. Additionally, it mumbled, "I see you." With a thumping heart, Emma jumped back. She was persuaded that she had only imagined it. Stress. Isolation. Because the house was nearly one hundred years old, it's possible that strange sound traveled through the walls. She didn’t sleep.

The scratching had become more audible—like clawing—by the fourth night. She placed a bookshelf in front of the door and taped over the keyhole. However, the snoring that night came from the vents. The pacing was back. Behind the door, the breathing had stopped. It was in the walls.

The tape was gone by the fifth night. slipped cleanly out of the keyhole. The bookshelf was only a few inches off center; it was not knocked over or thrown over. Recently moved. as though to imply, "We're still here." Emma stared at the door for a long time.

She ought to have left. Called someone. Anyone.

However, curiosity is mean. That night, at 2:16 a.m., Emma sat in the dark hallway, knees drawn to her chest, flashlight off. She looked through the keyhole. The scratching started at 2:17 p.m. This time, it's more pressing. She extended her head. One eye level with the brass.

She felt a rush of ice run down her spine as soon as she looked through it. She initially saw nothing but blackness. Then something moved.

a white flash of light An eye.

Looking back at her.

Emma let out a sigh and slid backward. However, the door did not move. It wouldn't open. It was not required to. Because she heard the whisper in her ear rather than coming from behind her as she scrambled up and ran for the stairs. "I'm thankful." Two days later, they discovered Emma's phone still recording on the stairs. No sign of forced entry. Emma is not visible. Only a single frame in the final seconds of the video: the keyhole.

Additionally, a thin, pale finger sticking out of it.