The Door That Should Never Be Opened

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

Ava stared at the old wooden door, its peeling paint and rusted hinges whispering secrets from a time long forgotten. The candlelight flickered in the small room, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. She could hear the wind howling outside, rattling the windows, but it was the faint sound behind the door that held her frozen in place—a scratching, faint but persistent.

She knew the stories. Every child in the village did. The door had always been there, in the abandoned house at the end of the lane, a relic of a curse spoken by some long-gone ancestor. The rule was simple, yet absolute. No one opened it. Those who did never returned to tell what was on the other side.

The scratching grew louder, almost desperate, as if whatever was trapped within could sense her hesitation. “Don’t,” Ava whispered to herself, backing away. But the sound changed—now it was a voice. A soft, pleading voice. Her sister’s voice.

“Please, Ava… I’m here.”

Her heart stopped. Her sister had disappeared a year ago, without a trace. They had searched everywhere, called for her until their throats were raw. And now, that same voice, begging from behind the cursed door.

Tears welled up in her eyes. Was it truly her? Or was it the evil the village elders had warned about, using her grief against her?

The door creaked as she reached for the handle.

There was only one rule… but maybe just this once, she could break it.

With trembling hands, she turned the knob.

The light vanished. And so did she.