The Shadow Behind the Door

Naila had never believed in ghosts. When she rented the old countryside cottage for a weekend getaway, she laughed at the landlord’s warning.

“Don’t open the backroom door after midnight,” the old man had said. “No matter what you hear.”

She dismissed it as superstition. The house was ancient, with creaky wooden floors and candle-lit sconces, but that only added to its charm. After unpacking, she made herself a cup of tea and curled up with a book. The night air was crisp, and the silence outside was peaceful.

At exactly midnight, a soft knock echoed from the backroom.

Naila froze.

It wasn’t possible. She was alone.

The knock came again—slow, deliberate. Then, a whisper seeped through the wood.

“Let me out.”

Her pulse quickened. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe an animal had gotten trapped inside. Gathering her courage, she approached the door. The air around it was unnaturally cold.

“Nonsense,” she muttered, reaching for the handle.

Then, she remembered the landlord’s warning.

Don’t open the door.

The knocking grew urgent, more desperate. Then, something scratched at the wood from the inside.

Naila backed away, her breath shallow. She forced herself to return to the couch, trying to ignore the persistent sound. But as the minutes passed, a new horror crept in—the knocks were no longer coming from the backroom.

They were moving.

Now, they came from the walls. From the ceiling. From the floor beneath her feet.

Then, a whisper slithered into her ear, close as a lover’s breath.

“You should have opened the door.”

Naila screamed and ran for the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. The locks twisted on their own, trapping her inside. The candlelight flickered wildly, casting shadows that danced and twisted—until one of them stepped forward.

A tall, gaunt figure with hollow eyes stood in the corner, watching her.

With a voice like the wind through dead leaves, it spoke.

“Now, I come to you.”

The lights went out.

The next morning, the landlord arrived to check on the cottage. The front door was locked, just as he had left it. But when he stepped inside, the house was empty. No sign of Naila—except for the deep scratches on the backroom door, as if something had tried to claw its way out.

And the whisper that greeted him:

“Let me out.”