The Door That Hungers

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

Tina’s breath hitched as she stood before the warped wood, its jagged scars stretching like open mouths mid-scream. A sickly odor seeped through the gap at the bottom, a stench of decay and something fouler—something hungry. The house felt alive, a beast with wooden bones, and the door its crooked mouth, daring her to draw closer.

Then came the voices—her parents, her childhood friend, even her own, droning in unison from the other side, coaxing her like lullabies soaked in venom. She pressed her palms against her ears, but the words seeped in, dripping through her skull: Come in, we’re waiting.

Her hand found the knob, drawn to the cold iron as if the chill coursing through her veins wasn’t fear but something darker. The door groaned open, and the whispers ceased, swallowed by a silence so heavy it suffocated.

Inside, shadows didn’t merely stretch—they writhed, twisted into impossible forms. Faces emerged, mouths sewn shut with sinew, eyes wide and desperate, oozing black tears that pooled at her feet. Each one had been someone once, and now they reached for her, skeletal hands dragging jagged nails across her skin, peeling away the layers.

The dark crept up her legs, wrapping her in a crushing cold. She tried to scream, but her breath twisted into shapes that mocked her terror. As Tina sank deeper into the writhing mass, she realized the faces weren’t looking at her; they were becoming her, pulling her features into their own.

The door slammed behind her. The wood’s deep grooves quivered, etched anew with the desperate scratchings of another soul who didn’t heed the warning.