The Door That Should Not Open
A man discovers a locked door inside his new house — one he never noticed, one that isn’t supposed to exist, and one that keeps unlocking itself.
The Door That Should Not Open
When Sami bought the house, the real estate agent warned him politely:
“It’s old, a little strange, but the price is good.”
He didn’t ask for details.
He needed cheap housing and a fresh start after the divorce, nothing more.
But on the first night, he noticed something odd.
A door.
Not a regular door — a narrow, wooden one in the hallway near the stairs.
He could’ve sworn it wasn’t there when he first toured the house.
Maybe he overlooked it.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
“Probably a storage room,” he muttered.
Except the lock wasn’t modern — it was the old brass kind used in houses built over a century ago.
And the keyhole was deeper than normal…
almost like something had been carved out from the inside.
He shrugged it off.
People imagine weird things in new homes.
On the third night, he heard the tapping.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
Coming from behind the locked door.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
At first he blamed the old wood, the wind, maybe even rodents.
But then the tapping stopped — and something else happened.
A whisper slid through the keyhole.
“Sami…”
He froze.
His entire body went cold.
That voice… knew his name.
He backed away slowly, heart hammering, whispering to nobody:
“You’re stressed. Just stressed.”
But deep inside, he knew what he heard.
The next morning, he checked the lock again.
The brass was warm.
As if someone had touched it right before he did.
He knelt down and peered through the keyhole.
Only darkness.
Not regular darkness — thick darkness, like something blocking light from the other side.
Then something moved inside that darkness — a slow, gentle ripple, like fabric shifting.
He jerked backwards.
That night, he pushed a heavy dresser in front of the door.
Just in case.
He didn’t sleep.
Around 2:40 AM, he heard the dresser scrape across the floor.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Something… was pushing from the other side.
Sami stayed frozen, gripping the bedsheet like a lifeline until morning.
When he checked the hallway, the dresser was shifted six inches to the right.
The door was still closed.
Still locked.
But a new scratch had appeared on the wood.
A long, deep vertical line — carved from the inside.
He called the real estate agent.
“You didn’t mention a locked door in the hallway.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t find it.”
“What’s behind it?”
More silence.
Finally, she whispered:
“No one knows. The previous owners kept it sealed… but someone always hears something.”
Sami’s throat tightened.
“What do you mean ‘someone always hears something’?”
“There are stories,” she said quietly.
“That the door wasn’t built with the rest of the house. It was added later. Or… maybe it forced itself into the architecture.”
Sami felt a shiver run through his spine.
“I’m coming to check on you,” she added. “Stay out of the hallway until I arrive.”
He hung up.
A minute later — the tapping started again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He covered his ears.
But the sound echoed inside his skull.
A pulse.
A heartbeat that wasn’t his.
He stood up, trembling, walking toward the hallway like someone pulling strings guided him.
The door was vibrating.
Very gently.
Like something behind it was breathing.
He whispered:
“What do you want?”
And the whisper came back, clearer this time:
“Let me finish.”
Finish what?
The door handle clicked.
Unlocked.
Slowly turning.
Sami stumbled back, panic flooding his chest. The wood creaked.
The door pushed inward by an inch.
A faint warm light leaked out — like candlelight.
He should have run.
He should have screamed.
He should have done anything except this:
He leaned closer.
The crack widened.
Warm breath touched his cheek from the other side.
Not cold.
Warm.
A soft voice exhaled:
“Finally.”
The door burst open—
And the hallway swallowed him.
When the real estate agent arrived an hour later, the house was silent.
The mysterious door was wide open.
The room behind it was completely empty — only old stone walls and dust.
But Sami was gone.
All that remained was the dresser…
placed neatly in front of the open doorway,
as if someone inside the room had dragged it there
after he stepped in.
About the Creator
shakir hamid
A passionate writer sharing well-researched true stories, real-life events, and thought-provoking content. My work focuses on clarity, depth, and storytelling that keeps readers informed and engaged.
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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.
By Do bol ho jaaye 2 days ago in Horror
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