"The Door"

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door.”

For years, Clara observed it without query. The door in the attic, the one her grandmother had warned her about considering the fact that adolescence, changed into by no means to be touched. "It's now not so that it will realize what is beyond," she'd say, her voice trembling.

But tonight, the whispers started out.

Clara lay in bed, heart pounding, as faint voices drifted down from the attic. They weren't clear at first, just gentle murmurs, almost like wind. But because the hours crept through, they grew louder. "Clara come nearer." The voices shifted, familiar, intimate. Her mother's voice gone for three years. Then her brother's, lost inside the coincidence ultimate wintry weather.

She sat up, her pulse thrumming in her throat. This was impossible. But what if? What if it turned into them? What if by some means, in the back of that door, they have been waiting for her?

With trembling arms, Clara climbed the steps. The door loomed in advance, old and cracked, the cope with sparkling under the dim light. "Open it," her mom's voice advised. "We're right here. "

She hesitated. The rule. Always the guideline. But now, they sounded so near.

With a sharp breath, she reached out and became the knob.

The door swung open.

The room past changed into empty. Dark. Cold.

Her breath hitched, and a pointy whisper grazed her ear, “Finally.”

Before she ought to flip, icy palms wrapped round her wrist and yanked her inner. The door slammed shut with a deafening thud.

From internal, Clara's voice echoed via the house: "Don't open the door. "