The Forbidden Door

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

Kayla looked at the old, damaged door in the corner of her grandmother's attic. Among the forgotten boxes and dusty antiques it seemed out of place, too strong, too sinister. "Don't ask why," her grandmother had said, her usually kind face hardening. "Just don't open it."

But curiosity made Kayla stare. Every time she came to the attic, the door seemed to beckon her closer, promises of secrets forgotten in whispers. The whispers got louder tonight. There was silence in the house, the wind outside was howling.

She reached forward, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold iron handle. What could be behind it? Her grandmother's voice echoed in her mind, but she felt distant, overwhelmed by her need to know.

With a quick, breathless movement, he turned the knob and opened the door.

At first, he saw nothing but darkness—a vast, empty void. Then the room became cold and dark. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows, a figure twisted and hollow, its eyes glowing with a faint, sickly light.

Kayla stumbled back as the thing crossed the threshold, its hollow voice calling her name. The attic grew colder, the shadows darker, as he realized too late that the door was a prison, not a passage.

And now, it was open.