The Door at the End of the Hall

The corridor light flickered again just as I stepped into the hallway, casting a sickly yellow glow across the faded wallpaper. Every evening, I walked past the long stretch of that hallway, careful never to let my eyes linger on the last door—the one sitting alone in the dark, covered in enough dust to blend into the walls around it.

I never used the room.

I never remembered using it.

It was just… there.

For years, I convinced myself it was nothing—an old storage room I had forgotten about, a space that served no purpose whatsoever. Yet something about it always tugged at the corner of my mind, like a memory I knew I had lost but didn’t want back.

Tonight, though, I stopped.

It wasn’t intentional.

It was as though my body paused on its own, refusing to take another step.

A faint sound came from the dark end of the hall.

A soft scraping, like fingers brushing lightly across wood.

I frowned.

“A rat,” I whispered, though the hallway felt far too still, too stale, for any living thing to roam.

The sound returned.

This time slower… deliberate.

My heart began to thud, the kind of heavy beat you feel in your throat. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark and landed on the dusty door. It looked untouched—as always—but something was different.

There was a handprint on it.

Fresh.

Clear.

Long streaks dragged down as though whatever touched it had been pulled away.

The air turned cold around me.

I swallowed, stepping closer despite every instinct screaming at me to go back. When I reached the door, my flashlight trembled in my hand. The wood seemed to pulse, almost like it was breathing.

“Hello?” I called out, barely above a whisper.

That’s when the door shuddered.

A violent, sudden jerking from the inside.

I froze.

My breath stopped.

Then came a voice.

Soft.

Gravelly.

Disturbingly familiar.

“You’re late.”

My stomach twisted. The voice sounded like mine—only deeper, older, wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.

“No,” I muttered. “No, no, no…”

The doorknob began to turn on its own.

Slowly.

Methodically.

The door creaked open just an inch, and cold blackness seeped out like smoke. I raised my flashlight again, aiming it into the small gap.

A face stared back at me.

Not a monster.

Not a ghost.

It was me.

Or something wearing my face.

Its eyes were completely black, swallowing all light. Its skin looked sunken, tight over bone, and its mouth stretched into an unnatural grin that split too far up the cheeks.

I stumbled backward.

It stepped forward.

“Finally,” it whispered. “Your turn.”

I tried to run, but my legs barely moved. The thing lunged, grabbing my wrist with a grip like ice and dragging me forward. The hallway warped around me; the light flickered faster until everything stuttered like a broken film reel.

“No! Let go of me!” I screamed, but my voice sounded thin, distant, as though the air itself swallowed it whole.

The creature pulled harder, dragging me toward the darkness behind the door. My fingers scraped helplessly against the floor. The cold was unbearable—painfully sharp—like winter had wrapped itself around my bones.

Then the thing leaned close to my ear.

“Don’t worry,” it hissed. “You won’t be alone. Not for long.”

With one final pull, I fell through the doorway.

Darkness swallowed me instantly.

Not ordinary darkness—vast, suffocating, endless. I felt like I was sinking through something thick and cold, unable to breathe, unable to scream. Strange whispers echoed around me, familiar voices twisted into grotesque imitations of people I once knew.

Then—light.

Not around me.

Outside.

I saw the hallway again through a narrow slit… like I was looking through a keyhole.

And then I understood.

I wasn’t outside anymore.

I wasn’t in the hallway.

I wasn’t even in my own body.

Because standing in the hallway—perfectly still, smiling my smile—was the other me.

The thing from behind the door.

It reached out and gently pushed the door closed, trapping me in the dark.

“As long as you stay quiet,” it whispered through the wood, “maybe they won’t notice you’re gone.”

The door clicked shut.

The darkness settled.

And I realized the terrible truth:

Some doors don’t want to be opened.

Some doors want to replace you.