Emma was 13 years old when her family moved into the old house on Willow Street. It was a creaky, drafty place that smelled faintly of mothballs, but her parents had fallen in love with its "charm." Emma wasn't so sure. Especially not about the closet in her room.
The closet was different. Its door was painted bright red, unlike the rest of the house's muted tones. And no matter how hard her parents tried, the paint refused to be covered.
"Just leave it," her mom said with a shrug. "It gives the room personality."
Emma hated it. At night, the door seemed to loom in the darkness, and the faintest whispers would seep through the cracks.
It started small—just a soft rustling sound, like clothing shifting on hangers. Then came the knocks, rhythmic and slow. Emma told her parents, but they dismissed it as her imagination or the house settling.
One night, unable to sleep, Emma decided to investigate. She turned on her bedside lamp, grabbed her flashlight, and approached the closet. Her heart pounded as she gripped the doorknob.
When she opened it, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just her clothes, shoes, and the musty smell of old wood. She sighed in relief, closing the door.
But as she turned back toward her bed, she heard it:
"Emma..."
Her stomach dropped. She spun around, staring at the closed door.
"Emma... let me out."
The voice was faint, barely audible, but it sent chills down her spine. She bolted to her bed, pulling the covers over her head and refusing to look at the closet again.
The next morning, she told her parents again. Her dad inspected the closet, knocking on its walls and floors, finding nothing unusual.
"See? Just an old closet," he said, smiling.
But Emma knew better.
That night, the voice returned, louder this time.
"Emma... I'm stuck... please..."
Trembling, she whispered, "Who are you?"
There was silence for a moment, then a soft laugh. "I'm your friend. Don't you want to play?"
Emma shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. "Go away!"
The closet door creaked open a crack. A pale, thin hand slipped through, its fingers impossibly long and bony.
"Let me out," the voice pleaded again, more insistent.
Emma screamed, and her parents came running. They found the closet door wide open and Emma huddled on her bed. But when her dad inspected the closet, the hand was gone.
Over the next few days, Emma refused to sleep in her room. Her parents finally agreed to have the closet removed, hiring a contractor to tear it out.
When they pried the back wall off, they found something horrifying—a small, bricked-in space, and within it, the skeletal remains of a child clutching a faded red ribbon.
The closet was destroyed, and the house sold within months. But sometimes, Emma dreams of that red door, and the voice that still whispers her name.