The Shadow Behind the Door

eving widow, whispering ancient secrets through the broken windows of the old Elmsworth mansion. No one dared to go near it. Children spoke of red eyes in the dark. The elderly warned of whispers at midnight. But to me and my friends, it was just an abandoned house with stories
until that night.

It started as a joke. "Let’s spend one hour inside," Jared said, smirking. "One hour, and we become legends." There were five of us
me, Jared, Alyssa, Ben, and Mona. We were thrill-seekers, lovers of dares and horror movies. Nothing felt real until it touched our skin.

We stepped into the mansion just before midnight, our flashlights barely cutting through the thick darkness. The air smelled of mold and something else something metallic and old, like dried blood.

The door creaked closed behind us.

We laughed nervously, brushing off the goosebumps crawling up our spines. Dust danced in the flashlight beams. The wallpaper peeled like rotting skin, and every step echoed like a warning.

Then we heard it tap… tap… tap…

"Probably rats," Ben muttered. But the tapping grew louder, rhythmic, purposeful, like fingernails against wood.

“From upstairs,” Mona whispered, clutching my arm.

We climbed the staircase, each step groaning beneath us. On the landing, a hallway stretched endlessly, doors lining both sides like open mouths. One door at the very end—was half-open.

"Let’s check it out," Jared said, already walking.

The room was a child’s bedroom. Faded toys were scattered on the floor. A small bed with torn sheets stood in the corner. But what froze us wasn’t the room. It was the message scratched into the wall in jagged red letters:

"He watches from behind the door."

"Who writes this crap?" Alyssa scoffed, but her voice was too thin, too strained.

That’s when Mona screamed.

We turned there was a door we hadn’t seen before. A narrow, wooden panel, wedged into the wall like a scar. It began to open, slowly, without a sound.

Beyond it nothing but pitch-blackness.

Then a foot stepped out. Pale. Bare. Human
but wrong.

Then the hand, long and clawed, dragging along the wall like it was tasting it.

And then the face.

I can't describe it. Not properly. Imagine eyes that weren't eyes just hollow sockets dripping something black. A mouth that stretched far too wide, smiling like it had waited centuries to be seen. Its skin was waxy, grey, and pulsing like it breathed from somewhere beneath.

We ran.

We flew down the stairs, hearts hammering, the thing’s footsteps thudding behind us
unnatural, erratic, as if it walked on broken bones. Jared tripped. He screamed once, and then he was gone.

Just gone.

We didn’t stop. We reached the front door. It wouldn’t open. Alyssa cried, banging on it. Ben pulled at the knob. Mona vomited. The shadows crept closer.

Then—silence.

The footsteps had stopped.

Ben turned. “Where is it?”

A whisper breathed right beside my ear: “Still watching.”

Ben was snatched backwards. No scream. Just silence, and blood smeared on the wall behind where he had stood.

Mona collapsed. Alyssa froze, her eyes wide, locked on something behind me.

“It’s behind you,” she whispered.

I didn’t turn. I grabbed Mona and yanked the door again and it opened. Just like that.

We stumbled out into the night. Alyssa never followed.

To this day, Mona doesn’t speak. She just stares at doors, trembling.

I’ve moved cities, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, in the silence of night, I hear a tap… tap… tap…

And when I pass by mirrors or half-open doors, I swear I see its smile waiting.

Because I learned too late: some doors are not meant to be opened.
And some shadows, once seen, never leave.

How do you feel after reading such stories?

I would like to get your opinions.

Thank you very much for reading.!❤️