The Door That Wasn’t There

The Door That Wasn’t There

It began one night, as these things often do, with a noise that was easy to dismiss. A faint whisper, soft as the rustling of dead leaves against an old wall. I had been home for hours, nestled in my worn couch, trying to force sleep after a long day. The building, an aging relic of another era, often sighed and creaked, settling with the slow patience of time. I told myself it was nothing—just the house breathing.

But then I saw it.

A door.

Not just any door, but one that should not have been there. It stood stubbornly against the far wall of my modest apartment, a sliver of aged wood framed in chipped paint. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and stared again. The plaster and brick that I knew intimately had somehow shifted overnight, giving birth to this new portal. My fingers brushed its surface—a chill seeped through the skin like a whisper of frost. The door was locked, unyielding, with a small, ornate keyhole that seemed too delicate for the otherwise rough surroundings.

Panic mingled with disbelief. I had lived alone in this apartment for years. I had mapped every crack, every shadow. There was no way this door had been here before.

For nights afterward, the door haunted me. Scratching noises echoed from behind it—small taps, faint claws raking at unseen walls. And the breathing. At times, it was slow and shallow, other times ragged and desperate. I lay awake, heart hammering, convinced I was losing my mind.

I told a few friends about it, expecting concern, maybe a visit. Instead, I received laughter and disbelief.

“You’re imagining things,” my closest friend said, shaking his head. “Old buildings play tricks on you.”

But I knew better.

One night, the voice came.

A whisper, so fragile I barely heard it, but clear enough to freeze me to my core.

“Let me out.”

I sat frozen, ears straining in the thick silence that followed. The door didn’t budge, but the air grew heavy, the very atmosphere thick with something ancient and sorrowful.

The smell came next. At first, faint and indistinct—like earth after rain, mingled with dust and mildew. But soon it grew overpowering: the sickly sweetness of decay, damp soil, and something metallic beneath it all. It wrapped around the room like a living thing.

I tried everything to open the door. Screwdrivers, crowbars, brute force. Nothing worked. It was as if the door was part of the wall itself—yet simultaneously something else entirely.

The scratching grew frantic. The voice louder. The door seemed to pulse with a life of its own, each beat syncing with my racing heart.

And then, last night, everything changed.

I woke abruptly, drenched in cold sweat, to find the room altered. The door no longer seemed inert—it was warm to the touch, breathing beneath my fingertips like a slumbering beast awakening from a century of sleep.

And the voice, clearer now, desperate.

“Help me.”

Fear warred with curiosity. Trembling, I took a screwdriver and began to pry at the doorframe. It resisted at first, then creaked open with a sound that echoed through the silent apartment like a scream trapped in wood.

Darkness spilled out like thick ink, swallowing the light.

And there, standing in the void beyond, was her. A girl.

Pale as moonlight, translucent, with eyes that burned not with rage, but sorrow. Her lips trembled as she whispered a single word:

“Thank you.”

She stepped through the threshold, passing into the world of the living, and the door slammed shut behind her.

But I was no longer in my apartment.

The furniture was ancient, worn; the wallpaper faded and peeling; the air cold and stale. I was somewhere else entirely, trapped in a place that was neither fully real nor fully dream.

And across the room, opposite the door, stood another door.

Locked.

Waiting.

Some doors are not meant to be opened. And some doors, once opened, don’t let you leave.