The Door

It was early. We'd both just gotten up, groggy and quiet, bumping around the kitchen like we always did. My husband was fiddling with the coffee maker. I realized I left my phone charging in our bedroom.

I walked down the hallway, barefoot, still half-asleep.

I stop.

The door.

Our door.

Our bedroom door.

The door to our bedroom was gone.

In its place stood something else — shaped like a door, placed exactly where it should’ve been. Same size. Same white paint. Same brass handle we picked out together at the hardware store three years ago. But no part of it felt familiar.

I just stood there, blinking at it. Trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Same position. Same shape. Same color. But something was wrong. The door looked heavier, somehow. Like it had grown there overnight, rooted into the bones of the house.

I turned and called, "Daniel!" Confusion in my voice.

He came up behind me, coffee in hand, and froze too.

"Did our door always look like that?" I asked.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then: "I don't think so."

I take a step closer, which feels like I’m moving through molasses. The air thickened, more difficult to breathe than normal. My tongue tastes like old, dirty coins.

We stand side by side staring at it.

Neither of us want reach for the knob.

Standing in front of it made me sick.

Not nauseous. Not dizzy. Something deeper. Primal.

Like my stomach was remembering something my mind wasn’t allowed to know.

I didn’t speak at first. Just stared at it from the hallway.

I don’t remember reaching for his hand, but I was digging into his skin. His palm was damp.

“It’s still just a door,” I whisper.

But I’m lying.

Because every time I look at it, I felt this slow pressure inside my ribs — like the air in the hallway is expanding within me. Like something in the door recognizes me.

He leans forward, just a little.

“Don’t,” I said quickly.

He stops. But doesn’t step back.

“It’s not just me, right?” he asks. “It feels like… it’s waiting.”

I nodded. My mouth dry.

And yet — God help me — I keep wanting to reach for the knob. Not out of bravery. Not even curiosity.

It feels like opening it would answer something I didn’t know I’ve been asking my whole life.

I hate that feeling.

“We’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” I say.

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Day Two

I don’t mean to look at the door first thing in the morning.

But I do.

I’m walking down the hallway to the bathroom, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, when I freeze again — same place, same feeling.

The door is wrong.

This time, it’s not subtle.

The brass handle is on the left side now.

It was on the right. I know it was. I remember reaching for it yesterday — with my right hand.

So does Daniel.

When I call for him, he doesn't even wait for me to explain. He sees it and just stands there, staring at it like he’s trying to remember what “left” means.

“It flipped,” I say. “The handle flipped sides.”

“I know.”

“You see it too?”

“Yes.”

We don’t move.

The air smells… sweet. Overripe. Like fruit left too long in the heat.

Like I can hear invisible bugs getting to the fruit — the kind that don’t exist but still rotting anyway.

The wall to the left of the door has a hairline crack that wasn't there before. A long vertical split that runs almost to the ceiling. I run my fingers along it.

The wall feels soft and warm. Like leather made from an animal I can’t place.

“Did you hear anything last night?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Wait. Yeah. I woke up around three. I thought I heard… like… tapping?"

“From inside?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t press.

We take turns watching it from the living room for the rest of the day. Not because we think it will move, but because it feels like it might — like a pet begging for food.

We don’t talk about it. But each time we trade shifts, it feels like we’re humoring something. Like we’re part of a routine it expects.

That night, we both hear the tapping again at 11:24.

“It’s louder this time,” Daniel whispers, as if afraid it might start listening.

------------------------

Day Three

I wake up before the tapping.

Not because of a sound, but because I can feel it — like an itch in the center of my chest. A signal. I blink in the dark, already upright.

Daniel sits beside me on the couch, just as awake.

Neither of us says anything.

We check the time.

11:22.

We stand. Together, we move toward the hallway.

It’s colder tonight. The air sharper.

Like the door’s been left open.

The hallway stretches ahead, and we both stop short when we see it.

The handle is back on the right side.

Exactly where it used to be.

For a moment, I almost cry with relief. It’s stupid, but the familiarity crashes into me so hard I feel dizzy. Like something might finally be over.

Then I realize I’m holding my breath.

Because something’s different.

Not the door.

Not the wall.

The space.

The air just behind the door feels… occupied.

My ears ring faintly. My skin tightens, like I'm standing too close to something electric.

Not loud. Not moving. Just present.

Like someone is standing just out of sight. Trying to be still. Trying to hide.

Not very well.

The way a child hides by standing behind a curtain — feet poking out, giggling like they're clever.

But there's no giggling here.

Only breathing that seems like giggling.

Like I can feel the laughter in the silence.

“Do you feel that?” I whisper.

Daniel nods, shushing me with his finger. He’s already clutching my hand.

We don’t speak again. We don’t need to.

There is someone on the other side.

And they are trying to pretend they aren’t.

At 11:24, we hear a shuffle.

Soft, slow, uncoordinated.

On the ceiling.

And then the handle shifts down.

Just slightly.

Not enough to open.

Just enough to let us know:

They know we’re hiding too.

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Day Four

We wake up in the hallway.

Not in the living room. Not on the couch.

We are lying on the floor, backs pressed against the wall, facing the door.

It’s still closed.

The hallway light is off.

There’s no blanket, no pillows. Just us.

Staring at it.

And it's leaning.

Not swinging open. Not broken.

Just tilted forward, ever so slightly.

Like it bent down to look at us.

Like it’s listening.

Daniel shifts beside me, groggy.

“When did we fall asleep?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I don’t know.

My back aches. My mouth is dry. My arms feel like I’ve been holding something heavy all night.

“I don’t remember getting up,” I say.

Neither of us stands.

We stay low. Still.

Eventually, I press my hand against the floor to sit up.

That’s when I see it.

A faint indentation in the wood, right beside me.

A round shape with a short bar across the top — perfectly sized.

The outline of the door handle.

Like it rested against the floor next to me.

Or leaned close enough to leave a mark.

I don’t say anything.

Daniel sees it too.

We don’t stand.

We crawl away.

Slowly. Quietly.

As if we’ll disturb it if we rise too fast.

We spend the day trying not to look at the hallway.

We talk about cooking. About errands. About the weather.

But we don’t talk about the door.

Not even once.

That night, we book a hotel room.

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Day Five

We wake at 11:24 PM.

I jolt upright, searching the room to understand where I am.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. No fridge hum. No hallway noise.

Just silence, thick and sour like breath behind a closed hand.

The hotel door is gone.

And the door is there instead.

Same white paint. Same brass handle.

Embedded perfectly into the wall — like it was always part of the hotel room.

I know it’s not a dream because everything feels worse than real.

The carpet is damp under my feet.

But only in a straight line — from the bed to the door.

Each step toward it makes my legs ache—not with fatigue, but resistance.

Like I’m pushing through water. Or being held back by something I can't see.

I stand.

Daniel doesn’t.

“Please,” he says. “Just sit. Please. Don’t touch it.”

The shadows under the doorframe squirm when I look too long.

I blink — and for a moment, the door is cracked, showing nothing but splinters.

Then it’s closed again.

“Let’s call the front desk,” he urges.

We try.

The line hisses. Then dies. No dial tone. Just silence that feels watched.

My ears ring after I hang up — loud, shrill, like my own body is trying to drown out what’s coming.

We bang on the walls.

“HELLO?! IS ANYONE THERE?”

I pound with my fists and kick a hole that shows only void.

Daniel shouts again, his voice cracking, while I feel something sharp slide behind my ribs. My breath stutters, caught in a place that isn’t lungs.

“Can we hide in the bathroom?” he begs.

I run to it.

I shake the handle. Daniel tries to kick it in.

The door doesn’t even rattle.

He groans in pain and limps back, clutching his foot.

Cursing under his breath.

I can feel my pulse now — not just in my chest, but in my temples, in my fingertips, in the roof of my mouth. It’s everywhere. Loud. Wrong.

We both crawl into the bed.

We pull the covers up over our heads like children.

Like a practiced ritual.

Like praying for everything to be alright.

We stay like that for what feels like hours, but maybe only minutes.

Eyes catching every new detail.

We watch the ceiling.

Pretending it’s still just a hotel room.

Pretending the lights aren’t getting brighter around us.

Pretending we can’t hear the soft click of the brass handle shifting.

Daniel shifts around uncomfortably.

He pulls me close, making a scared little noise.

He’s shaking.

But we do hear it.

And every time it clicks, my teeth ache.

Eventually, I sit up.

I look at the door.

The room stretches — not the floor, but time itself.

Like the distance between me and the door is lengthening with every heartbeat.

I hear my name.

Not aloud — inside my teeth.

It buzzes in my molars like a wasp trapped in bone.

The brass handle warps when I look at it directly.

Wider. Then narrow. Then wide again.

Like it’s breathing through metal lungs.

My hand twitches involuntarily, pulling back without my permission.

The wood grain writhes like it’s trying to smooth itself out. Like it’s ashamed of being seen.

My eyes keep trying to blur, like they subconsciously want to look elsewhere.

There’s a smell now.

First: Hotel Continental breakfast.

Then: burning hair and flesh.

Then: Daniel's cologne.

I gag — my stomach convulses before my brain registers the scents mixing together.

Daniel’s reflection appears in the handle, but it only looks like him.

His reflection wants me to open it.

My fingertips go numb.

I can taste the lightbulbs.

The air buzzes like chewing tinfoil.

The carpet whispers in Morse code, I don’t know, but I feel guilty for ignoring it.

My legs shake.

Not from fear — from refusal.

My body is trying to stop me.

My fingers curl backward as I reach forward.

My throat is dry, but I’m salivating.

I gag, nearly vomiting.

I feel like praying to a God I don’t believe in.

Every muscle in my back pulls tight, not to protect me, but to turn me around.

Daniel starts to cry. Not loud — but raw.

Helpless.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “It’s not what you think. It’s not what it wants you to think.”

The door pulses.

I hear music. Or maybe it’s Daniel screaming. It’s so faint it comes from under my skin.

Something presses against the door from the other side — not a hand, not a body — just a presence, quivering, like a frightened animal trying to hide its shaking.

Its excitement.

The lights go out.

But the door glows.

Just faintly. Just enough to find it in the dark.

I touch the handle.

It’s cold. Too cold.

My knuckles lock. My wrist seizes up.

A bone in my hand pops — not loud, but definite.

My body recoils.

My vision flickers. The room warps left.

My breath hisses through my teeth.

My lungs flatten themselves like they’re trying to hide under my ribs.

I think of home.

I think of Daniel.

I think of our bedroom.

My body tells me no.

My thoughts scream not to.

A primal instinct tries to drag me away.

A survival instinct claws at my legs.

Every instinct begs me to run.

I know everything will change for the worst—

But still,

I turn the handle.