The Room That Shouldn't Exist

Samantha Winters had just turned 24 when she signed the lease on Apartment 3B in the Ashgrove Complex. It was one of those older buildings—red-bricked, slightly crooked, with creaky staircases and ivy crawling up the sides like green veins.

She required a new beginning. A quiet life. Even though it appeared to be quite affordable for the area, the apartment was just right.

“Old bones,” the landlord Mr. Fenwick had said. He was in his seventies, always wore a brown cardigan, and spoke as if the building had moods. “It’s a solid place. Just… don’t go poking around. Also, if anything seems off, just let it be. Most tenants around here prefer quiet.”

Samantha smiled politely. She believed that he was just being irrational. The first two nights were uneventful. She made coffee, unpacked, and listened to the city hum outside her window. But by the third night, she noticed something peculiar.
Her bedroom closet was drafty.

The closet didn’t face any external wall. In fact, it should’ve been surrounded by her own kitchen and the hallway. But still, when she opened the closet door, a cool breeze brushed her ankles.
She put the boxes and clothes away, knelt down, and looked at the back wall with a frown. Lightly, she rapped her knuckles against it.
Hollow.

She tilted her head. No studs. No pipes. Just an empty echo.
She felt a seam as her fingers traced along the wall. Subtle, expertly painted over, but definitely there. She worked with both hands to press. There was a soft click.
And the wall swung inward—revealing a narrow, dim corridor she had never seen before.

It smelled of old paper and forgotten things.
The silence that buzzes in your ears was thick and unnaturally still in the air. The hallway was about three feet wide, lined with faded, peeling wallpaper patterned with roses. It sloped slightly downward, into darkness.

Samantha hesitated. She should contact the landlord, according to her logic. Maybe even the police. However, curiosity pulled harder. She made her way inside. Each footstep echoed faintly. The light from her phone flashlight flickered nervously. After walking for what felt like ten meters, she saw it: a heavy wooden door, bolted with three rusted locks.

Doorknobs were not present. No peephole. No markings. merely a profound sense of unease. And then—bang.
a single, forceful knock. From the other side.
She gasped, heart pounding, and stumbled back. Nothing followed. The silence returned, this time with greater force. She turned and ran.

She closed the closet again in her room and stacked boxes in front of it. She didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, Samantha marched down to the building’s office. Mr. From a crossword that was yellowed, Fenwick looked up. “There’s a hallway behind my closet,” she said, her voice shaking. "And a door at its conclusion." He went pale.
“You opened it?” he asked quietly. “You… found that place?”
“What is it?” she demanded.

“I told the last owner to seal it up, but I guess they didn’t do it properly,” he muttered. “That space—no one built it. It wasn’t in the original plans. It showed up after… an incident. No matter how many times we try to wall it off, it always comes back. Like the house wants it open.”

She stared. “What’s behind the door?”
Mr. Fenwick met her eyes. “No one knows. One man opened it in the '80s. Was never the same after. Kept saying it knew his name. that it thought of him. He slid a small envelope across the desk. Inside was an old key. “If you go back in,” he whispered, “don’t open the door. Lock it. And leave.”
That night, the dream came.

She was standing in the hallway again. The wallpaper's roses were wilting. The wooden door was open, wide. There was no room inside—only a breathing blackness. A figure stood there. Tall. Thin. No face. Its mouth opened, and it whispered her name—backwards.

She woke with a scream.

The closet door creaked softly.

The seam she had pressed days ago?

It was once more open. Also, the door was closer this time.

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