The Thirteenth Door

Rain slapped the windows of the Greystone Orphanage with the fury of a fist. Inside, the halls were dim and the lights flickered with every crack of thunder. Annie, barely twelve and newly arrived, sat on her cot clutching a flashlight and a dog-eared book, though her eyes weren’t on the pages.

They were on the hallway.

More specifically, on the door at the end of it.

She had counted them her first night—twelve doors lining the east wing, six on each side. Twelve rooms for twelve girls. But this morning, there was a thirteenth.

It hadn’t been there before.

The new door was plain, darker than the others, with no number. Unlike the others, its handle was old brass, crusted with green corrosion. It had no keyhole. And it throbbed.

Not literally, of course. But every time Annie looked away, she felt it, like it was watching her, waiting. She asked the others. Most ignored her. One girl, Clara, whispered, “Don’t go near it. It opens sometimes. Even when it shouldn’t.”

That night, the door was ajar.

Barely. A crack. Just enough to see that there was no light inside. No walls either, it seemed. Just a void. The kind of blackness that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Miss Wren, the headmistress, denied it even existed. When Annie asked why there were thirteen doors, Miss Wren frowned and said, “There are twelve, child. Don’t let your imagination get the better of you.”

But Miss Wren never walked down the east hallway.

So Annie did.

One night, when the wind howled loud enough to drown her footsteps, Annie crept out of bed. Her flashlight quivered in her hand as she padded down the hall. Twelve doors stood silent. The thirteenth whispered.

Not words. Just a soft, rhythmic creak, like breath.

She approached. Something cold brushed her fingers. The door handle.

She turned it.

The door yawned open with a groan of rotting wood. Annie shone her light inside, expecting a room. There was none. The beam disappeared into blackness, as if the light itself had been devoured.

She stepped in.

The cold hit her like a slap. The air smelled of old stone and damp earth. She heard nothing. Not her breath. Not her steps. Just... silence. And yet, she was not alone.

She turned to go back. The door was gone.

She was in a corridor now. Endless. Narrow. Walls pulsing gently like lungs. Every few steps, there was a door. All unmarked. All closed. All wrong.

Annie chose one.

It opened with a moan. Inside was a room—but not hers. A younger version of herself sat on a hospital bed, crying, as a nurse told her that her parents hadn’t survived the crash. Annie gasped. The girl looked up. Her eyes were hollow.

Annie slammed the door shut.

Another door. She opened it. Clara was there, older, staring into a mirror that showed not her reflection but her corpse. Her skin was waxy, her eyes wide in silent scream.

Door after door. Each one showed a fear. A loss. A memory twisted just enough to feel unreal.

Then she found the thirteenth door.

It looked like the others. But it didn’t hum like the others. It screamed. Not with sound, but with pressure—a force pushing against her mind.

She opened it.

Inside stood Miss Wren.

Not the real Miss Wren. This one was taller, her limbs too long, her mouth too wide. She smiled with too many teeth.

“You wanted to know, didn’t you?” she cooed. Her voice echoed sideways.

“What is this place?” Annie asked.

“It’s where the unwanted go,” she said. “Memories, fears, thoughts that never got born. The door feeds on them. And now, it feeds on you.”

Annie turned to run, but the corridor melted. The doors wept. The walls became mirrors, each reflecting not her body, but versions of her twisted by grief and guilt. One was crying. One was laughing. One was clawing her own face.

Then, one whispered, “Close the door.”

It was her. Just her. Eyes wide. Terrified. Sane.

“How?” she begged.

“You made it open. Make it shut.”

Annie faced the thirteenth door. The not-Wren advanced, arms now stretching, fingers becoming tendrils.

Annie focused. Not on fear. But on something else.

Hope.

She imagined her room. The flashlight. The rain. The real orphanage. And with all her will, she said:

“You are not real. You’re not mine.”

The door shuddered.

“You need me,” hissed the thing.

Annie touched the handle. It burned. She held on.

“No,” she whispered. “I need me.”

And she slammed the door shut.

She awoke in bed. The rain had stopped. The hallway was quiet.

Twelve doors. All numbered.

The thirteenth door was gone.

Or so she thought.

Until she heard it.

Creak.

Just a whisper. Just once.

But enough.

It wasn’t gone.