Behind The Door

"What’s behind the door?" 

It was Elise’s first question as she toured the creaking house on Hollow Ridge. The realtor, a wiry man with darting eyes, a sweat mustache, and fingers that fidgeted with his tie, hesitated before answering.

“That?” He forced a grin, but it came out brittle, like a shard of broken glass. His gaze lingered on the door: a crooked, time-warped plank at the end of the upstairs hall. “Just a crawlspace. Best leave it alone. There’s plenty of storage throughout the rest of the house, you won’t need that dusty old thing.”

Elise nodded but felt a weight in her chest every time she glanced at it. Unlike the other doors in the house, which stood straight and clean, this one seemed warped, as though it were struggling to contain something. Deep gouges marred the frame, jagged and chaotic, like the desperate work of nails—or claws. The tarnished iron knob was too cold when she touched it, sending a jolt through her fingertips.

The first night in the house was uneventful, at least at first. The wind howled through the old eaves, and the radiator sputtered and hissed, familiar sounds for an old home. But just past midnight, Elise woke with a start. She sat up in bed listening to the house. Elsie held her breath trying to silence herself, to pinpoint the sound.

There it was. Breathing.

Not the shallow breath of the wind or the rhythmic groans of pipes. This was wet, deep, and unnervingly human. Inhale. Exhale. The sound reverberated through the house, faint but constant. She pulled the covers tighter and pressed her palms against her ears, but the sound wasn’t just heard—it was felt, a vibration crawling through her bones.

By morning, it was gone.

When Elise passed the door, it felt different—heavier, as though the air around it was thicker. She leaned closer, placing her ear against the warped wood. The cold leached into her skin immediately, but she heard nothing. No breathing. Just silence, vast and empty. She told herself it was nothing. Just her imagination.

But it wasn’t.

By the third night, the breathing was louder. Louder and closer. It sounded as though it was just on the other side of the door. Elise stared at it from her bed, clutching the sheets like a lifeline, and swore she saw the knob tremble, just slightly, as if someone—or something—was testing it.

The next morning, she found the door cracked open. Not much, just enough to reveal a sliver of shadow beyond, so dark it seemed to drink the light around it. Her stomach turned.

She didn’t remember opening it. She knew she hadn’t.

Her heart pounded as she fetched a flashlight. The knob was damp under her grip, leaving her palm slick with something cold and viscous. The hinges groaned as she swung the door wide.

The smell hit her like a physical blow. Thick, cloying, and nauseating, it reeked of rot and stagnant water. Beyond the doorway was not a crawlspace but a narrow staircase, spiraling downward into a pit of inky darkness. The flashlight’s beam trembled in her shaking hand as she stepped inside.

Each step creaked underfoot; the sound swallowed quickly by the oppressive air. The walls were damp, oozing trails of dark liquid that dripped rhythmically onto the steps. The deeper she went, the worse the smell became, like decay made tangible, clinging to her skin and hair.

The stairs ended in a circular room; the ceiling so low Elise had to stoop. Her flashlight swept across the space, illuminating jars lining the walls, each coated in a greasy film. The liquid inside them churned sluggishly, disturbed by her presence.

And then she saw what was in the jars.

The first held a tangle of human teeth, too many to belong to one mouth. Another jar contained a lump of flesh, blackened and writhing as though alive. The largest jar sat in the center; its contents shrouded in dark liquid. Elise moved closer, the beam of her flashlight slicing through the murk. Inside was a head.

The face was contorted, its mouth frozen mid-scream, skin bloated and waxy. Its eyes were missing, replaced by hollow, yawning pits that seemed to stare directly at her.

The flashlight flickered.

Behind her, the breathing returned, louder now, wet and rasping, as though the lungs producing it were filled with fluid. It wasn’t just a sound anymore—it was a presence. She felt it pressing against her back, heavy and cold.

She spun around, the light shaking wildly, casting grotesque shadows that danced across the walls. At first, there was nothing, just the stairwell leading back up. Then something moved.

It emerged from the darkness, crawling down the stairs with an unnatural, insect-like precision. Its limbs bent backward, the joints popping audibly with each movement. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over sharp, jutting bones, as though it barely contained the thing inside.

And its face—if it could be called a face—was a shifting mass of jagged teeth and slick, oozing flesh. Its head twisted unnaturally as it crawled, the grotesque maw opening wider and wider, revealing rows upon rows of teeth that spiraled endlessly into darkness. Globs of blackened drool dripped from its mouth, hissing as they hit the ground.

Elise stumbled back, her scream choking in her throat. She tripped, landing hard on the cold stone floor, her flashlight spinning out of her hand. In the faint, erratic beam, she saw the creature rise. It towered over her now, its limbs stretching impossibly long, its head tilting as it regarded her with empty, rotting sockets that seemed to drink her fear.

Its voice slithered into her ears, low and wet, like a corpse speaking through water.

“What’s behind the door?”

It lunged, and the flashlight blinked out, plunging her into absolute darkness.

The next morning, the house on Hollow Ridge was silent again.

Neighbors say no one has seen Elise since. But sometimes, late at night, faint breathing can be heard from the upstairs hallway—slow, rhythmic, and impossibly deep.