There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Lena stared at the heavy oak slab, its handle glinting like a challenge. She had been told the rule since she was a child, but no one ever explained why. “It’s for your own good,” her grandmother would say, voice thick with warning, but that wasn’t enough anymore.

Tonight, something was different. A soft, persistent knock echoed through the hallway, so faint that at first she thought she had imagined it. Then it came again, more insistent. She stepped closer, her breath shallow, eyes fixed on the dark wood. The air around her grew colder, heavy with anticipation.

“What could be on the other side?” Lena whispered, feeling her curiosity creep over her like a shroud. The house was old—centuries, they said—and filled with secrets. What harm could come from just one peek?

The knock became a soft scratching sound, as though something was dragging its nails along the other side of the door. Lena’s heart raced. Her hand reached out, trembling as her fingers grazed the cold brass knob.

She hesitated, remembering the stories: the warnings about what came out at night, what had once lived in the shadows of this house. But the scratching turned into a desperate, almost human cry, and all caution fell away.

With a deep breath, she twisted the handle and pulled.

The door swung open into a void of endless darkness. The air was thick with rot, and a pair of pale eyes blinked from the blackness, locking onto hers. A hand, with fingers too long and bones too sharp, reached out, brushing her face.

Before she could scream, the door slammed shut on its own, leaving Lena in silence. Except now, the knocking came from behind her.