The Shadow Beyond the Door

It was an old, creaky house on the edge of the forest—long abandoned, with shattered windows and ivy crawling over the stone like veins. Locals whispered about it, calling it cursed, haunted, or worse. But seventeen-year-old Zayan didn’t believe in ghost stories. When dared by his friends to spend one night there, he agreed without hesitation. He was curious by nature and never backed down from a challenge.

With only a flashlight, his phone, and a sleeping bag, he stepped inside just before sunset. Dust swirled in the air, and every step on the wooden floor moaned under his weight. Spiderwebs hung like curtains, and the silence felt unnaturally heavy. He wandered through the rooms until he reached the drawing room. There, a grand fireplace stood cold and empty, and above it hung a crooked painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow him.

But it wasn’t the painting that caught Zayan’s attention. It was the black door in the corner of the room—tall, wide, and with an iron lock. Unlike the rest of the house, this door was clean. No dust, no cobwebs. Just smooth, polished wood, and a key already sitting in the lock.

Zayan stared at it for a long while. Something about it felt wrong. The air near it was colder. But his curiosity won.

He turned the key.

The lock clicked.

He pulled the door open.

Behind it was a narrow staircase, spiraling down into complete darkness. A foul, musty smell hit his nose. The kind that clings to your clothes and soul. He switched on his flashlight and descended slowly.

The staircase led to a long hallway lined with old portraits. Each frame held a person, yet their eyes were all black—empty sockets staring into nothing. At the end of the hallway stood a mirror. Tall, cracked, and strange. His reflection was distorted—not matching his movements.

Then, the lights flickered.

No—his flashlight didn’t flicker. The hallway did. It was like reality trembled for a second.

And in the mirror, Zayan saw it—a tall, dark figure standing behind him, its face hidden in shadow, but eyes glowing red.

He spun around.

Nothing.

When he looked back at the mirror—it was gone too. Just his own face, pale and terrified.

He ran. Up the stairs, out of the room, slamming the black door shut. He threw his sleeping bag into a corner and tried to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks. But as the night grew deeper, the sounds began.

Scratching behind the walls. Whispering in a language he didn’t understand. A faint, rhythmic tapping from inside the black door.

He blocked his ears. But the whispers grew louder.

He messaged his friends:
“Not funny. Stop trying to scare me.”

They replied:
“We’re at home, man. What are you talking about?”

The tapping turned to banging.

He stared at the door. The key was missing.

The air turned icy. His breath formed mist.

And then, the door slowly opened on its own.

From the darkness stepped the same shadow he had seen in the mirror. Tall. Hollow eyes. A mouth stitched shut.

It raised its hand and pointed at him.

Zayan couldn’t scream.

He backed into the wall, breathless, heart racing.

“W-what do you want?” he whispered.

The shadow didn’t speak. It simply touched the wall—and it melted into blackness.

The floor disappeared beneath him.

He fell.

Fell into darkness.


---

The next morning, his friends came to find him, thinking he’d be asleep or trying to scare them with fake ghost stories. But the house was empty.

No sign of Zayan.

Except for the black door—now sealed shut, the key missing, and a new portrait on the wall in the hallway below.

A painting of Zayan.

With black, empty eyes.


---

Moral: Some curiosities are better left unexplored. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.