Whispers in the Dark

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

For weeks, it had been easy to follow. At night, when the wind howled and the house creaked like old bones settling, the door at the end of the hall stood silent. And locked. Aunt Clara’s last words echoed in my head. “It doesn’t matter what you hear. What you think you hear. Never open the door.”

I hadn’t questioned her then, but tonight, something changed. A faint tapping came from behind the door. I held my breath. Tap, tap, tap. Soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat, it continued until a voice followed—a voice that sounded like my mother’s.

"Please, let me out."

My heart hammered. I hadn’t heard my mother’s voice in years. She had disappeared when I was a child, vanished without a trace. The voice grew more frantic. “It’s so dark... please!”

My hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling. Could it really be her? Aunt Clara had been a strange woman—superstitious, paranoid—but she wouldn’t lie about something like this, would she?

The tapping stopped. Silence. Then, the voice came again, soft and desperate. “It’s cold. I’m so cold.”

I couldn’t take it. I twisted the knob.

The door swung open.

Inside, there was no one. Just a shadow that unfurled like smoke, creeping toward me, whispering in a voice that now sounded nothing like my mother’s.

"Thank you... for letting me out."