The door

There was only one rule: do not open the door 🚪

It seemed simple enough, but when the old man muttered it to me before I agreed to house-sit, his milky eyes betrayed an unease I couldn’t ignore. “Nothing good ever comes from what’s inside,” he added, more to himself than to me.

The first two nights passed without incident, though I’d catch myself staring at that door at odd moments, the ancient brass handle gleaming in the low light. It felt wrong—too still, too silent, as if it had been holding its breath for years, waiting.

On the third night, a soft knock came from the other side.

I froze, heart pounding. I told myself it was a trick of my imagination, but the knock came again—louder this time. My hands trembled, and curiosity, that cursed instinct, gnawed at my resolve. I could hear something now—a voice, low and desperate, calling my name.

“Help me,” it whispered.

I knew I shouldn’t. The old man’s warning rang in my ears, but I inched closer. The plea grew weaker, more pitiful. It sounded so familiar… like someone I knew, someone I loved.

My fingers brushed the cold metal of the handle, and before I could stop myself, I turned it.

The door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness—until something reached out, pulling me in. The door slammed shut behind me.

Now, there’s a new knock.

It’s coming from me.