The Last Door

The house on Wren Street sat in perpetual silence, its darkened windows hiding secrets older than the town itself. People spoke of it in murmurs, casting sidelong glances as if even mentioning it could bring ill luck. Whispers swirled: some said it was haunted; others, that it carried a curse. But nobody really knew. It was just there, a place where the air felt thicker, heavy with unseen eyes. And the shadows? Well, they had a life of their own.

Samantha wasn't one for tales. No, she was rational, grounded, the kind who demanded evidence before entertaining such fancies. So, when she inherited the house from her late aunt, she dismissed the stories. To her, it was an opportunity. Sure, it was an ancient structure, but perhaps it could be transformed into something useful—a quaint bed-and-breakfast, maybe. People loved a bit of history, didn’t they?

The day she arrived, the sky was a blanket of steely gray. Cold seeped into her bones as the wind gusted through the gnarled trees lining the property, almost as if the land itself wished to warn her. With keys gripped firmly in her hand, she approached the rusty gate. It groaned, protesting as she pushed it open. The house loomed ahead, a looming silhouette against the bleak horizon.

Inside, the air was stale. It tasted of dust and decay, as if time itself had rotted away within these walls. Cobwebs hung in thick sheets, veiling every corner. It’s just a house, she reminded herself, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness. She flicked the light switch. A dim, flickering glow stretched down a narrow hallway, lined with doors on either side, each one ancient, worn.

As she explored, moving room to room, something odd caught her eye. At the far end of the hallway stood a door that didn’t belong. It was stark, freshly painted in an unyielding black, contrasting sharply with the faded, peeling wallpaper. Frowning, she traced its frame with her fingertips. Why was this door so… new?

Had her aunt renovated? And if so, why just this door? It was locked. She rattled the handle, but it held firm. Irritation prickled at her thoughts. This is my house now. What could possibly be behind a door I’m not allowed to open?

She spent the next hours searching every crevice—the kitchen drawers, the attic’s dusty corners, the closets crammed with relics of a forgotten past. No key. A tight knot of unease twisted in her stomach. A door, in her house, that she couldn't open? Why?

Night crept in, bringing with it a thick silence. As Samantha settled into one of the upstairs bedrooms, an unnerving sensation washed over her. The feeling of being watched. Outside, the wind howled, causing the house to moan and creak in response. Just as sleep began to tug at her eyelids, a sound pierced the quiet.

Thud. Pause. Thud. Again, it came from the hallway.

Her pulse quickened. Grabbing the flashlight beside her, she edged out of bed. Darkness swallowed the hallway, an abyss that seemed almost… sentient. Slowly, she crept toward that black door. Thud. Thud. The sound grew louder, more insistent.

"Hello?" she called, her voice wavering. Silence answered, except for the steady, rhythmic pounding. Trembling, she reached out and touched the door. The noise stopped. Cold dread washed over her, rooting her feet to the spot. It’s just an old house. Nothing more. Yet, as she turned away, a sharp click echoed through the hallway.

She spun back, heart hammering against her ribs. The door knob was twisting, moving on its own. Panic surged, freezing her limbs. It turned slowly, deliberately, until the door creaked open, revealing a sliver of yawning darkness.

Don't. Every fiber of her being screamed to run. Yet curiosity, that insidious lure, pulled her forward. She pushed the door open wider. A rush of frigid air hit her face, carrying with it the scent of damp earth. Flashlight in hand, she stepped into the room.

It was small. Windowless. And at its center stood a single object: a tall, ornate mirror encased in a cracked, decaying frame. Dust cloaked its surface, thick as if untouched for centuries. She approached, a sense of wrongness prickling along her skin.

Just as her hand reached out to wipe the glass clean, she saw it. A shape within the mirror, a faint, undulating shadow. She froze. No one else is here. No one. But the shadow moved, turning, twisting, until its hollow eyes locked onto hers.

A scream died in her throat as she stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. It clattered to the floor, rolling away. A whisper filled the air, low and chilling. "The door was meant to stay closed."

The door slammed shut with a thunderous crash, sealing the room—and whatever lay within—behind it. Samantha staggered back, heart in her throat. The door stood firm, mocking her with its impenetrable barrier.

She fled to her room, locking herself inside. Pressing her back against the door, she tried to steady her breathing. But one thought pounded in her head, relentless: Some doors should never be opened. This was one of them.

From that night on, the house on Wren Street was not silent. For every evening, as darkness settled in, the rhythmic thudding would begin behind The Last Door. And Samantha would lie awake, eyes wide in the dark, haunted by the sound that seemed to echo from the depths of a nightmare she dared not revisit.