The Door Wasn’t Supposed to Be Open

I remember that evening like a bloodstain that never fades.

The sun had dipped behind the trees, casting eerie orange shadows across our quiet street. The kind of light that makes even the safest neighborhoods look… haunted. I had just put Maya, my 8-year-old daughter, to bed. She asked for her nightlight—“The purple one, Daddy, not the blue.” It was our little routine. A small act of comfort in a world I could never fully protect her from.

I walked back downstairs and turned on the TV. Something forgettable was playing. A sitcom, I think. I wasn’t really watching. I was half-awake, my body heavy from the day, my thoughts drifting like static in a dying radio signal.

Then I noticed it.

The front door. It was cracked open—just an inch—but enough.

My heart stuttered. I always lock that door. Obsessively. It’s not just a habit—it’s a ritual. Deadbolt. Handle. Chain. Every time.

I stood there, frozen.

Maybe I forgot.

Maybe Maya tried to open it.

Maybe... no. Something’s off.

I stepped outside, barefoot on cold concrete. The street was still. No breeze. No sound except a faint rattle of wind chimes from somewhere down the road.

I shut the door and locked it—hard. Then I checked the entire house like I was on autopilot. Bathroom: clear. Kitchen: clear. Basement: locked. Back door: locked. Maya’s window: shut tight. Everything seemed fine.

Until I passed the hallway mirror.

There was a handprint on the glass.

A smudge, low down. Too large for Maya. Too fresh to be mine. Too deliberate.

I stopped breathing. The fear crept in like cold smoke, seeping under my skin. Every nerve in my body screamed danger, but my feet wouldn’t move. My hand was shaking as I reached for my phone.

I ran upstairs, skipping steps, nearly tripping. I opened Maya’s door. She was still asleep, small and quiet under her blanket. Her nightlight bathed the room in soft purple light.

I closed her door and stood outside it, phone still in hand.

But I didn’t call anyone.

What would I even say?

"Hi, I think someone opened my door and left a handprint but didn’t take anything or leave a trace?"

They’d think I was paranoid. Tired. Maybe I was. But this didn’t feel like paranoia. It felt like a warning.

I barely slept. Every sound in the house—pipes settling, floorboards creaking, the hum of the fridge—felt like footsteps. Whispers. Watching.

The next morning, the handprint was gone.

I stared at the mirror for minutes, heart pounding. Then I asked Maya, casually, if she had touched it.

She looked at me, wide-eyed. “I thought you said not to talk about the man,” she whispered.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

I never told her about the door.

Never said a word about any man.

She was dreaming. She had to be. Right? Just a child’s wild imagination.

But that didn’t explain the handprint. Or the way she looked at me. Or the way the dog I adopted the next day refused to go near the mirror, barking at it for no reason. He whined when I brought him near it. The fur on his back bristled. Animals sense things we don’t. And something was off.

I installed cameras. Reinforced every lock. Bought motion sensors. Even sprinkled flour near the door one night.

The cameras? They caught nothing. No movement. No figure. No door opening.

But in the flour?

Footsteps. Just one pair. Bare feet. Leading in. None leading out.

Now, every time I walk past that mirror…

I check for handprints.

Because the door wasn’t supposed to be open.

But it was.

And someone came in.

And maybe—just maybe—they never really left.