The Knocking at the Third Door

The wind howled outside on this cold October evening, rattling the ancient windows of the deserted mansion. With a flashlight in hand, Samira, an urban adventurer, stood at the manor's door, eager to learn more about this abandoned location. The little rustle of dried leaves seemed to murmur warnings that she choose to ignore, and the air smelled of decay.

Inside, the manor was an eerie world of creaking floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Dust danced in the beam of her flashlight, revealing cobwebs draped like curtains. Samira’s goal was simple: to document the infamous “third door,” rumored to be cursed. Legends claimed anyone who knocked on it heard a response from beyond, though no one dared to tell what followed.

She walked carefully through the tangle of dark hallways. The first two doors she came to were just regular ones. One led to a dilapidated library with books strewn about as though they had been left unread. The other led to a dining area where a long table remained arranged as if it were anticipating a spectral feast.

Finally, she reached it—the third door. Unlike the others, this one was pristine, as if untouched by time. Its surface gleamed unnaturally, the brass knocker shaped like a clawed hand. Samira hesitated, her breath visible in the cold air.

“What’s behind you?” she murmured, half to herself, half to the silent house. The legends swirled in her mind. Yet curiosity won over fear. She lifted the knocker and rapped three times.

The sound echoed unnaturally, as if the house itself held its breath. Then, silence. For a moment, she thought the tales were just that—stories. But then came the knock.

One knock, deliberate and slow, from the other side.

Samira’s heart raced. Her flashlight flickered, and the air grew colder. The floor beneath her felt unstable, like it might swallow her whole.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in her chest.

The door creaked slightly, as though someone—or something—pressed against it. Shadows pooled at the edges, stretching unnaturally towards her feet. The clawed knocker began to vibrate, emitting a low hum that sent chills down her spine.

Samira stumbled back, the flashlight dropping from her hand and rolling across the floor. She wanted to run but found herself rooted in place, as if the house itself held her captive.

Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing nothing but darkness. Yet, it wasn’t empty. A presence filled the space—cold, heavy, and suffocating. Invisible fingers seemed to brush her arm, sending a jolt of icy terror through her veins.

A voice, low and guttural, emerged from the void. “You knocked... now enter.”

Samira shook her head, her body trembling. “No... I-I didn’t mean to!”

The darkness surged forward, wrapping around her like a living shadow. She screamed, but her voice was lost in the void.

And then, silence.

When a group of explorers came to the manor months later, they found her flashlight near the third door, its battery long dead. The door itself was pristine, its clawed knocker gleaming as if waiting for the next curious soul.

The legend of the third door grew, but no one dared knock again.