There’s a door in my grandmother’s house that no one ever opens. It sits at the end of a dimly lit hallway, warped with age, its brass handle rusted over. As a child, I was always told to stay away.
"That door leads nowhere," my grandmother would say. But I knew that was a lie.
One night, when I was ten, I woke up to the sound of scratching—faint, deliberate, coming from behind the door. I crept out of bed, heart hammering, and placed my ear against the wood. The scratching stopped.
Then, three slow knocks.
I ran back to bed, shoving the covers over my head. The next morning, I asked my grandmother about it, but she just muttered something about "things best left alone."
Years passed, and I eventually forgot about the door. Until last week.
My grandmother passed away, and I inherited the house. On my first night back, I walked down the hallway, my fingers tracing the peeling wallpaper. The door was still there. Still closed. Still silent.
I should’ve left it that way.
Curiosity gnawed at me. I reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it turned with a soft click. The door creaked open, revealing a dark, narrow staircase leading down into what should have been solid ground. A damp, musty smell rose from the depths.
I hesitated. Then, something whispered my name.
I slammed the door shut, heart pounding. But before I could step away, I heard it again—closer this time. A rasping voice from the other side.
"Why did you come back?"
The door handle started to turn.
I ran.
Now, every night, the knocks return. Slow. Insistent. Closer.
I don’t know what’s behind that door.
I don’t want to know.
But I think, soon, it won’t be up to me.