The Door That Shouldn’t Open

The Door That Shouldn’t Open

There’s a door in my house

that no one remembers building,

a thin wooden frame

that hums late at night.

Sometimes it shakes softly,

as though something inside

is waiting for me

to walk closer.

I stand in the hall

watching its shadow breathe,

feeling the air change

around my skin.

Once it opened a crack,

and the darkness behind it

felt warm and alive

like a waiting heartbeat.

I still don’t touch the handle,

but the door keeps whispering,

telling me one night

I will.

The nights feel longer,

the walls lean inward slightly,

as if the whole house knows

what waits behind that wood.

Sometimes I hear breathing,

slow and heavy,

pressing through the gap

like it wants to learn my name.

And when the floorboards creak,

not from my steps

but from something moving closer,

I know the door is getting ready.

The hall grew colder,

a silence crawling slowly,

creeping up the walls

like something waking.

The door began to tremble,

not softly, not unsure,

but with a hunger

that felt almost human.

And somewhere inside,

a low sound answered,

calling my name

as though it already owned me.

And as the shadows gather,

the whole house seems to whisper,

urging me to step forward,

for the door has chosen me.