The Door Never Lies
Some things knock to be let in, but it’s what waits behind the door that will take everything.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door.
Mark sat rigid, eyes fixed on the fire as it struggled to stay alive, flickering against the suffocating darkness of the old farmhouse. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the wind-battered walls. Father Guiseppie’s warning was a drumbeat in his mind.
“No matter what, no matter how much you want to, don’t open the door.”
But now it came, soft at first. A knock, almost imperceptible, like fingers grazing the wood. His heart stuttered. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It’s not real. It’s not real.
Another knock, louder, sharper. His gaze snapped toward the door. The latch wobbled slightly, the metal shaking as if something barely contained its hunger on the other side.
“Mark…” The voice was soft, familiar. Jaclyn’s voice. She was dead, buried deep under the cold earth—he had seen to that himself. But here she was, whispering through the cracks, her voice like shattered glass scraping across his soul. “Mark, please. I’m so cold… let me in.”
His hands trembled. The fire hissed, casting warped shadows that crawled along the walls, grotesque in their movement. His heart was tearing itself apart, half clinging to the memory of Jaclyn, the other to the terror creeping up his spine. He wanted to believe. He needed to believe.
“I’m scared, Mark… I need you.”
His body moved on its own, inching toward the door, as if her voice alone had reanimated him. His hand hovered over the latch.
BANG! The door shook violently. Jaclyn’s voice cracked, turned sharp, desperate.
“LET ME IN!”
Mark stumbled backward, heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the weight of something pressing against the door now. It wasn’t her. He knew it wasn’t her. But the pounding… the voices. Not just hers anymore—dozens of voices, calling his name, all familiar, all pleading, shrieking in agony.
He fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears, tears streaming down his face as the cacophony of horror grew louder, unbearable. His mother’s voice joined them. His father’s. “Mark, we’re here… we’re here… let us in.”
BANG. BANG. The door buckled. Wood splintered. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he reached for the latch, his mind unraveling in the noise, his screams lost among theirs.
The door flew open.
The thing that stood in the doorway… it wore Jaclyn’s face, but it wasn’t her. The eyes—those black, empty eyes—bored into him, hungry. The skin hung loose, as if someone had draped her features over something else, something rotting and twisted. Her smile stretched too wide, splitting her cheeks, revealing rows of jagged, blood-stained teeth.
Mark screamed, but no sound came. He tried to crawl back, but the thing was already there, crouching over him, its mouth opening impossibly wide.
And then, in a blink, the world went black as it devoured him whole.
The door slammed shut.
And the night was silent again.
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More stories from Jason “Jay” Benskin and writers in Horror and other communities.
The Voice That Waited
Seen (1) At the edge of a quiet town stood an abandoned radio station, forgotten by time and avoided by locals. The building had been shut down for over twenty years, yet people claimed that at exactly 2:17 a.m., a faint broadcast could still be heard on an old frequency. No music. No news. Just a voice. Daniel was a small content creator who specialized in audio storytelling. He didn’t believe in rumors, but he believed in stories. When he heard about the mysterious broadcast, he decided to investigate—not for views, but for curiosity. One cold night, Daniel entered the radio station with his recorder and headphones. Dust covered the equipment, and spider webs hung from the ceiling. Everything looked dead. Silent. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the old transmitter crackled. A voice broke through the static. “Hello… is anyone listening?” Daniel froze. The voice was calm but tired, like someone who had been waiting for a long time. “My name is Arthur,” the voice continued. “I used to work here. If you can hear me, please don’t turn this off.” Daniel whispered into his microphone, “I’m listening.” The voice seemed relieved. “For years, I spoke into this microphone, hoping someone would hear me. When the station shut down, everyone left. Everyone except me.” Daniel’s heart raced. “Are you… alive?” There was a pause. Then a soft laugh. “That depends on what you mean by alive,” Arthur said. “I passed away in this building many years ago. But my voice stayed. This place remembers me.” Arthur explained that he had been a late-night radio host, speaking to lonely people, travelers, and insomniacs. The night the station closed, he stayed behind to record one final message—something meaningful. But no one ever aired it. He died alone, with his words unheard. “So I kept talking,” Arthur said. “Night after night. Waiting for someone to listen.” Daniel felt a heavy silence fill the room. “What do you want from me?” Daniel asked. Arthur answered gently, “I don’t need fear. I don’t need fame. I just want my message to reach someone. Anyone.” Daniel nodded, even though Arthur couldn’t see him. “I’ll share your story.” For the first time, the static disappeared. Arthur’s voice became clear. “Tell them this,” he said. “You are not invisible. Someone, somewhere, needs your voice—even if you don’t know it yet.” The broadcast ended. The room fell silent. Daniel left the station before sunrise and spent the next day editing the audio. He uploaded the recording as a simple podcast episode titled *The Voice That Waited*. He didn’t add music. He didn’t add effects. Just the truth. Within days, thousands of messages poured in. People said the voice helped them through loneliness, grief, and dark nights. Some cried. Some found comfort. Some found hope. Daniel returned to the radio station one last time. At 2:17 a.m., there was no broadcast. The transmitter stayed silent. But Daniel smiled. Because he understood something important: Some voices don’t fade because they are loud. They survive because someone finally listens.
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Getting Serious About Comedy (Part I)
If I were asked to remark on my life and the childhood that paved some road leading me to this point, I would have to say something about all the funny people who surrounded me for the last 26,872 days (and counting). Somewhere along that road, I became a big fan of laughter and the comedy that spawns it – and, I mean not only my own laughter, but the laughter of others, some of which I have actually been responsible for inducing.
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Comments (1)
One needs to follow the rules and don't let curiosity get you. Good work.