The Closet Door

When I was little, I used to cry myself to sleep. My mom said it was just a phase, that I was too sensitive, and that the other kids would grow out of their meanness. But their words stuck to me like gum under a school desk—chewed up and forgotten, but still there.

It always started the same way: the room would go quiet, shadows would stretch long across my walls, and I’d lie in bed with tears sliding into my pillow. That’s when the closet door would open.

It never creaked. Never made a sound. Just slowly cracked open like a breath, wide enough to show nothing but the pitch black inside. And then came the whisper. Soft, like silk sliding against skin.

"Are you hurt again, little one?"

At first, I screamed. I called for Mom, who rushed in and scolded me for leaving the closet ajar. She would close it firmly and kiss my forehead, telling me, "There’s nothing in there, baby. Just your old shoes and too-small clothes."

But the next night, it opened again.

This time, I didn’t scream. I just stared, heart hammering, as a hand slowly reached out—not like a human hand, but long and narrow, with too many joints and skin as gray as smoke. The fingers flexed once, then twice.

"Are you hurt again, little one?" the whisper came again. Somehow kinder this time. Sad, almost.

I nodded. Not sure why. Maybe because I was tired of crying alone. Tired of feeling invisible.

The hand didn’t grab me. It simply rested its knuckles on the floor, palm up, like an offering.

That was the first night I slept peacefully. When I woke up, the closet was shut, and my pillow was dry.

---

From then on, the pattern stayed. Whenever I cried, the door would open. The creature—who I began to call "Ash" because of the way its voice sounded like burnt paper—would offer comfort. Sometimes it whispered soft songs in a language I couldn’t understand. Sometimes it just sat there, unmoving, like a living shadow beside my bed.

It never hurt me.

It never left the closet.

---

As I got older, the crying stopped. Mostly. I tried to grow up. Act normal. Ignore the whispers I remembered too well. But I missed Ash. I missed the comfort, the way it made me feel like someone actually cared that I was hurting.

I forgot about it—until the day my father came back.

I was fifteen. He'd been gone since I was three. And when he returned, he brought nothing but anger and fists that flew faster than his words. Mom just stood there. Silent. Frozen. As if she'd already given up.

That night, I cried harder than I ever had.

The closet opened.

Ash didn’t speak. It stepped out.

---

Its body unfolded slowly—so tall it had to hunch under the ceiling. Its limbs looked like branches scorched by lightning. But its eyes—if they were eyes—glowed softly, like dying coals. It came to my bedside and knelt down, claws resting gently on the sheets.

"You called me," it said. "And I heard."

I was terrified. It had never left the closet before. But I couldn’t look away.

"Why are you here?" I asked in a trembling voice.

"Because the pain is too loud now. And I cannot ignore it."

I don’t know what came over me, but I grabbed its clawed hand. It was warm. Not in a comforting way, but like a stone that had sat in the sun too long. Still, I didn’t let go.

"He hurt me," I whispered.

Ash didn’t respond right away. It turned its head toward the hallway—where the sound of my father’s drunken snoring leaked in like poison.

"Do you want me to stop him?" Ash asked. Not like a question, but like a ritual. Like it had said those words before.

I didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Just tears.

Ash stood up, and its body dissolved into smoke as it glided toward the door. I stayed in bed. I didn’t follow. I didn’t breathe. I just listened.

There was no screaming. No growling. Just a long silence, followed by the sharp sound of something heavy collapsing.

Then nothing.

---

In the morning, my father was gone. Mom said he left again. She didn’t ask questions. I didn’t give answers.

But when I went to my room, the closet door was open.

Inside, Ash stood waiting.

"I will always come when you cry," it said. "But you must understand: there is always a cost."

I didn’t understand then. I do now.

---

I’m twenty-eight. I haven’t cried in years.

I try not to.

Because now… the closet door is opening on its own.

Even when I’m not sad.

Even when the house is quiet and I’m doing just fine.

Ash steps out anyway, taller now, darker than ever.

It never says a word anymore.

It just watches me sleep.

Like it's waiting.