The Unopened Silence

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. When Sam moved into the house, the landlord’s warning came with a peculiar gravity. The door stood at the end of the hallway, its brass handle cold and untouched. It wasn’t locked, just forbidden. Every night, as Sam lay in bed, he could feel the door’s presence—silent, waiting. But he didn’t need to open it. He wouldn’t.

Until one night, the scratching began. Faint at first, almost like the rustling of paper against wood. Then came the whisper. Low, indistinct words seeped through the cracks, like voices from the bottom of a well.

Sam tried to ignore it, but the whispers turned to cries. Desperate, anguished cries that twisted something deep inside him. Whoever—or whatever—was behind that door sounded trapped, begging for release. He covered his ears, but the noise grew louder, clawing at his sanity. He tried to sleep, but the cries tore through his mind, unraveling him with every passing hour.

On the third night, it was unbearable. With shaking hands, Sam approached the door, telling himself it couldn’t be real. His heart raced as he grasped the handle, pulse pounding in his ears. The cries stopped.

The silence was worse.

He opened the door.

It was empty—just an ordinary room. Confused, Sam stepped inside, but when he turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind him. He rushed to open it, but the handle wouldn’t budge.

On the other side, the whispers resumed. This time, it was his voice.

There was only one rule.

Some doors are meant to remain closed—for what lies behind might not be as terrifying as what you become after opening them.