Through the Wrong Door

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

But Alice was never good at following rules, especially in strange places. She’d stumbled upon the peculiar house in the woods—its windows glowing like sleepy eyes—after wandering too far from the path. Mrs. Fidget, the odd woman who lived there, had left her alone for “just a moment” with that single warning.

Alice, of course, was curious.

The door at the end of the corridor was small, almost child-sized, with a brass handle that gleamed like it had been waiting for her. Something on the other side seemed to hum, a gentle melody pulling her closer.

“What harm could a peek do?” she whispered, twisting the knob.

As the door creaked open, a sudden gust of cold air rushed through, pulling her in. Alice tumbled into a garden—not like any garden she’d ever seen. The flowers had faces, twisted in silent screams, and the trees whispered secrets she wished she hadn’t heard. A pale moon hung unnaturally close, casting shadows that moved on their own.

Ahead, a long table stretched out, laden with rotten cakes and cracked teapots. At the head sat a figure, tall and gaunt, its face obscured by an oversized hat.

“Late for tea, aren’t we?” it rasped, its voice like broken glass.

Alice turned to run, but the door was gone. Only a voice remained, echoing in the dark.

“You shouldn’t have opened the door.”