The Forbidden Door

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

It was the only warning my older brother gave me before he vanished into the woods. His eyes, usually gentle, were glacial, his knuckles alabaster around the shotgun. He departed the cabin in silence, the door quivering closed behind him.

Hours elapsed. The storm outside transformed the world into a maelstrom of howling winds and frantic shadows. The door rattled, the wood groaning as though it restrained something insatiable. The air grew frigid; each gust was a chilling whisper calling my name. The lantern flickered, casting grotesque shapes across the walls.

A knock. Soft at first, then insistent. A rhythmic tapping like skeletal fingers drumming against the wood.

I forced myself to stay seated, my brother's warning reverberating in my mind. But then a voice, unmistakably my brother’s, called out. “Let me in, bro.” His voice cracked, muffled by the door. “The storm got me. Let me in.”

I stood, my feet moving of their own accord, drawn to the voice. My fingers brushed the cold brass handle. The door seemed to breathe, the timber exhaling a mournful sigh.

“Please,” the voice whimpered, twisted with torment. Despite every instinct screaming at me, I twisted the knob.

The door swung open, revealing darkness—a void that devoured the world beyond. My brother stood there, or something clad in his skin—eyes hollow, obsidian voids staring through me. His smile was too wide, splitting his face, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. His voice reverberated deeper now. “I told you not to open it.”

Cold, decaying hands encircled my arm, yanking me forward. The void pulsed, whispers and wails rising from within. I realized—too late—that what I had let in wasn’t my brother.

The door slammed shut, plunging the cabin into silence. Only the storm remained, howling outside, mourning another lost soul.