The Whisper Beyond the Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. For weeks, it stood at the end of the dim hallway, weathered wood scarred by scratches, as if something—or someone—had tried to escape. Nathan was warned, explicitly. His grandmother’s words echoed: “No matter what you hear, no matter what you feel, never open it.” But curiosity, as always, was a wicked companion.

At night, strange sounds stirred beyond the door—a low scratching, whispering breaths, and sometimes… soft crying. He tried to ignore it, telling himself it was just an old house settling in the night. But the temptation gnawed at him. The question burned: What could be so dangerous?

One evening, as the house slumbered under a moonless sky, the sounds behind the door grew frantic—sharp knocks, desperate whimpers, as though someone begged for release. Nathan couldn’t resist anymore. His hand trembled as he turned the rusted knob and pulled the door open.

The air beyond felt thick, cold, and wrong. A figure stood in the dark, eyes hollow, its lips curled into a twisted smile. "Thank you," it whispered. Before Nathan could react, the thing lunged, the door slamming shut behind them both.

The next morning, the door remained closed. And the house was silent, except for the distant sound of soft footsteps… coming from the other side.

The rule was simple. He had broken it. And now the door waited—for the next curious soul to make the same mistake.