There was always that one door at the end of the hallway that scared me as a kid. Whenever I walked past it, I felt like something was watching me from the other side of it.
When I was little I didn’t think much. It was just “the locked door.” Every house has a room that you’re not supposed to enter, right? A storage or maybe some old furniture stacked in there. But the older I got, the more that door started to bother me. It wasn’t just that it was locked, it was the way mom and dad never ever mentioned it. Like the door was invisible to them, and if I brought it up, they’d get uncomfortable.
I remember one time, maybe I was twelve, I asked my mom about it. She was stirring a pot of soup, I can still see the steam rising, and I just said “what’s in that room?” Her spoon stopped mid air. Just for a second, but I noticed. She finally said “it’s not for us.” That was it. Nothing more. But the way she looked at me after, it was like I had stepped on some hidden wire.
And those words stuck in my head. Not for us. Who was it for then?
Nights were worse. Because I swear, sometimes, I heard things from inside there. Like dragging noises, like someone pulling fabric across the floor. Once, I even thought I heard knocking. Not loud but steady, like testing the wood. But then I’d open my own door and the hallway was silent. Too silent.
By the time I turned fourteen, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. The thought just wouldn’t leave me. I wanted to see. I wanted to know. And I knew where dad kept the spare keys. In this metal box on top of the wardrobe in their bedroom. They always went shopping on Saturday mornings, left me alone for about an hour, so one weekend I decided, today was the day.
My hands were shaking climbing the chair, rattling the box until the keys spilled out all over the bedspread. I picked the brass one, the one that just felt like it belonged.
When I stood in front of the door, my heart was in my throat. I almost turned back. But then I remembered mom’s voice, the way she said not for us, and something about that made me angry. Angry enough to do it.
The key slid in like butter. Too smooth. Like the lock had been waiting.
I turned it and the door gave a click. I pushed, but something heavy leaned against it. So I shoved again, harder, and finally slipped in through a narrow crack.
The smell hit first. Dust, rot, like iron. The curtains were shut, but even the sliver of light sneaking through seemed swallowed, like the room didn’t want light in it.
There were crates stacked against the wall. Not normal boxes, not cardboard or anything. Heavy nailed shut wooden crates, like shipping containers. And right in the center, facing away from me, a wooden chair.
I whispered “hello?” Stupid thing to do, but the silence pressed so heavy I couldn’t take it.
The chair creaked.
Slowly.
Like someone had just shifted in it.
My skin went cold. I couldn’t move or breathe. I help my breathe so no sound would be heard from me. Then the chair began to turn around, little by little, towards my direction. It scraped the the floor as it turned, as if somebody was turning it. Someone invisible
And when it faced me, it was empty.
That should have calmed me but it didn’t. It felt worse. Like the emptiness was deliberate. Like something was sitting there but didn’t want me to see. The crates behind seemed to buzz, a faint hum, like when you stand near a power line.
I panicked. I fell backwards and slammed into the doorframe with my shoulder. The door knob twisted easy, and I fell out into the hallway.
By the afternoon, when mom and dad came home, the door was shut again. Locked, like nothing had happened. I told myself maybe it was all in my head, and the room was simply old and rusty. Maybe the chair creak was caused by wind from outside. Maybe the hum was in my own ears.
But that night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I heard it again.
A knock.
Not from the hallway this time.
From inside my wall.