The Whisper Door

The house was old, much older than anyone in the town remembered. It stood at the edge of Gray Hollow, half-swallowed by overgrown vines and shadows. No one dared approach it—not since the Henderson girl vanished one autumn night, last seen walking toward its porch.

But I was curious. Curious and stupid.

They dared me, of course. My friends, half-drunk and restless on Halloween night.
“Go knock on the Whisper Door,” they laughed. “Bet you won’t make it five minutes.”

Whisper Door.

That’s what they called it. Because sometimes, at night, you could hear it—soft whispers from behind that peeling black door. They said the house was alive. That it fed on secrets. That once you opened it, it never let you forget.

I didn’t believe in stories. Not really.

So I took the flashlight, crossed the empty field, and stepped onto the crooked porch.


---

The door didn’t creak.

It sighed.

A low breath, like something exhaling in relief after years of silence. My skin crawled.

The doorknob was ice cold. The wood damp under my palm. And as I leaned close—I swear to God—I heard it.

“Come in, Emily…”

No one had said my name.


---

Inside, the air was thick, like breathing through wet cotton. Dust floated like ash, and the floorboards groaned beneath each step. The living room was frozen in time—cobwebbed furniture, a broken clock ticking without rhythm, a portrait of a family whose faces had been scratched out.

Then I heard it again.

A whisper, not from the door this time, but deeper inside.

“Upstairs…”

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

Against every sane instinct, I climbed.

The staircase bent like it might collapse, and halfway up, something brushed against my leg. I spun around—nothing.

Just the house watching.


---

The hallway at the top was pitch black. My flashlight flickered like a dying heartbeat. Doors lined the hall, some closed, some cracked open just enough to suggest something might be watching back.

Then I saw it.

The last door on the right.

It was red.

Not painted. Stained. Something darker oozed from its frame, and the handle pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own.

And still, I reached for it.

Because the whisper had changed.

“Help me…”


---

Inside was a girl.

At least, what used to be one.

She sat in a rocking chair, long dark hair hanging in clumps over her face. Her skin was gray-blue. Her hands clutched a doll missing an eye. The walls were covered in writing—words etched in fingernail scrapes.

LET ME OUT
HE COMES THROUGH THE WHISPERS
DON’T LISTEN TOO LONG

I stepped back.

The girl’s head snapped up. Her eyes were gone. Just two gaping sockets leaking black tears.

“Emily…” she croaked.

I turned to run.

The door slammed behind me.


---

The room twisted.

I wasn’t in the house anymore. Not really. The walls stretched, warped. Voices pressed in from every side—whispers of people I knew. Dead relatives. Old friends. Even myself.

Screaming.

Begging.

Laughing.

The girl stood, her feet dragging, twitching like a puppet on tangled strings.

“You heard too much,” she said.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“You listened. That’s all it needs.”

Suddenly her face twisted into a scream, and the whispers exploded into howls. The walls cracked. Shadows bled down from the ceiling like tar. Something massive moved behind the wall, thudding closer.

“It’s coming,” she whispered.


---

I bolted.

The door was gone.

The room stretched on and on, endless like a maze. But I ran. I didn’t look back. I didn’t breathe.

I found a window. I threw myself through it.


---

When I hit the ground, the house was gone.

Just gone.

Behind me was only field.

I stumbled back to the others, covered in cuts and mud, shaking.

They laughed at first, until they saw my face.

I never told them what happened. Not all of it.

Just that the house was empty. That I’d been scared by rats. That I tripped.

But some nights, I wake up to the sound of a soft knock.

And a whisper just outside my window:

“Come back, Emily…”


---

Would you open the door a second time?