Chapter 1: The knock
One evening, after a tiring day, I went to my room, locked the door, and headed straight to the washroom. My mind was preoccupied, replaying the day's events, so much so that I completely forgot I had locked the door to my room. As I stood there in the washroom, lost in thought, I suddenly heard a distinct knock on the washroom door.
Startled, I froze for a moment. My heart began to race as I called out, "Who is it?" But no one answered. The silence that followed was deafening, amplifying my unease. I called out again, louder this time, but the response was the same—nothing. My mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I slowly opened the washroom door, expecting to see someone standing there. But there was no one. My room was completely empty, just as I had left it. That's when it hit me—I had locked the door to my room before entering the washroom. How could anyone have gotten in?
A chill ran down my spine as I stood there, staring at the locked door, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The knock had been so clear, so deliberate, as if someone was standing just outside, waiting to get in.
Unable to shake off the growing fear, I rushed out of my room and asked everyone in the house if they had knocked on my washroom door. Each of them looked at me, puzzled, and swore they hadn't. Their confusion only deepened my sense of dread.
To this day, that memory lingers in my mind, haunting me in quiet moments. I often replay the scene in my head, searching for a rational explanation, but none ever comes. The thought of who—or what—could have knocked on that door fills me with a chilling horror that refuses to fade.
Chapter 2: The Whisper in the Dark
Days passed, but the incident refused to leave my thoughts. Every time I stepped into my room, a sense of unease crept over me, as though I were not truly alone. I kept telling myself it was my imagination, a trick of the mind brought on by exhaustion. But deep down, I knew there was something more.
One night, a week after the knock, I decided to confront my fear. I locked my room door, as I always did now, and sat on the bed, determined to prove to myself that nothing was amiss. The room was eerily quiet; even the usual nighttime sounds seemed muffled.
As the hours passed and midnight crept closer, I began to feel a strange heaviness in the air, a tension I couldn't explain. I tried to distract myself by scrolling through my phone, but my attention kept wandering to the washroom door, half-open and ominously still.
Then, just as the clock struck 12, I heard it—a faint whisper. It was so soft I wasn't even sure I'd heard it at first. I froze, my ears straining to catch the sound again.
"You shouldn't be here…"
The words were barely audible, but they sent a jolt of terror through me. My breathing quickened, and I stared at the washroom door, half-expecting it to swing open on its own. But it remained still, as though mocking me with its silence.
I wanted to run, to fling open my room door and escape, but my legs felt like lead. Instead, I forced myself to speak, my voice trembling. "Who's there?"
No answer.
Gathering all my courage, I stood up and approached the washroom. My hand trembled as I reached for the light switch, but just as my fingers brushed it, the whisper came again, clearer this time.
"Why did you lock the door?"
I gasped and stumbled back, nearly tripping over myself in my haste to retreat. My heart pounded so loudly it felt like it might burst. I turned and bolted for the room door, fumbling with the lock in my panic.
When I finally threw the door open, the hallway was empty. The silence of the house was overwhelming, almost suffocating. I rushed to my parents' room and woke them, tears streaming down my face as I tried to explain what had just happened.
They listened, concern etched on their faces, but I could see the doubt in their eyes. "You've been stressed," my father said gently. "Sometimes, our minds play tricks on us."
But it wasn't a trick. I knew what I'd heard.
That night, I couldn't bring myself to return to my room. I slept on the couch in the living room, my thoughts racing. Who—or what—had whispered to me? And why did it ask about the locked door?
The next day, I avoided my room altogether. But I knew I couldn't avoid it forever. Something was in there, waiting. And somehow, I knew it wasn't finished with me.
Chapter 3: The Shadow Beyond
A few nights later, I found myself standing at the threshold of my room, staring at the closed door. The memory of the whisper still lingered, sending chills down my spine, but I couldn't keep running. I needed answers, even if the thought terrified me.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside. The air felt colder than the rest of the house, almost as though the room itself was alive and watching me. I closed the door behind me, my hand hesitating briefly before turning the lock. If this thing wanted to confront me, I wouldn't give it an easy way out—or myself an easy escape.
For a while, everything seemed normal. I sat on my bed, trying to focus on a book, but I couldn't concentrate. My eyes kept flicking to the washroom door, closed now, as if it were a barrier between me and something… else.
At around 1 a.m., the atmosphere changed. The room felt heavier, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. That's when I noticed it—a faint sound, almost like breathing. It wasn't coming from the washroom this time; it was coming from the corner of the room, where the shadows pooled beneath my desk.
"Who's there?" My voice came out barely above a whisper.
The breathing stopped.
A moment later, I saw it. A shadow darker than the others began to shift, almost imperceptibly, as if it were gathering itself together. My blood turned to ice as it rose slowly, taking on a vague, human-like shape.
I wanted to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. The shadow loomed taller, its presence oppressive and suffocating. It didn't have a face, yet I could feel its gaze fixed on me, piercing through the darkness.
"Why did you come back?" it whispered, the voice low and hollow, like wind through a cave.
My mind raced. I couldn't think, couldn't move. Summoning what little courage I had left, I stammered, "W-what do you want?"
The shadow didn't answer right away. Instead, it moved closer, its form shifting like smoke. When it was just a few feet away, it stopped.
"You locked the door," it said, its voice echoing unnaturally. "But doors don't keep me out."
Before I could react, the shadow surged forward, and everything went black.
--
I woke up hours later, sprawled on the floor. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed unreal, too bright, too warm for what I'd experienced. My body ached, and my mind felt like it had been through a storm.
The room looked exactly as it had before, as if nothing had happened. The washroom door was still closed, the shadows under the desk innocuous in the daylight. But I knew better now.
I left the room that morning, vowing never to return alone at night. Whatever it was that haunted my room, it wasn't bound by the rules of the living. And somehow, I knew this wasn't over. The shadow had made its presence known, but its warning echoed in my mind:
Doors wouldn't keep it out. Nothing would.
Chapter 4: The Mark Left Behind
For weeks, I avoided my room after dark. By day, it seemed harmless—a quiet, ordinary space filled with my belongings. But at night, it became a realm of fear. My family noticed my behavior, urging me to move back into my room, but I made excuses. I wasn't ready to face whatever had whispered to me, whatever had loomed in the shadows.
But one morning, as I was retrieving some clothes from my room, I noticed something that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. The wall near my washroom door bore faint marks, as though someone had run their fingers down it. The streaks were long, uneven, and unnervingly deep, as if they had been etched into the paint by something sharp.
I ran my fingers over the grooves, hoping they were just scratches I'd never noticed before. But as I did, I felt an icy sensation, as though the wall itself were rejecting my touch.
The same chill crept into my bones that night as I sat in the living room, unable to sleep. The memory of the marks on the wall gnawed at me. Had the shadow left them behind as a warning? Or as a reminder that it was still there?
---
Unable to rest, I decided to research the house. I delved into its history, searching for anything that might explain the strange occurrences. It took days of digging, but eventually, I found something—a tragedy that had taken place decades ago.
A family had lived here before us. The youngest son, a reclusive boy, had reportedly spent most of his time in the very room that was now mine. One night, he locked himself in his room and was never seen alive again. When his family finally broke down the door, they found the washroom door ajar and his lifeless body sprawled on the floor. His death was ruled a suicide, but the details were vague, shrouded in mystery.
The story made my blood run cold. Could the shadow be connected to him? Was it his restless spirit, or was it something far darker, something that had driven him to his end?
---
I couldn't keep the knowledge to myself. That evening, I shared the story with my family, hoping for their support. But their reactions were mixed—some dismissed it as coincidence, while others grew visibly uneasy.
"We've lived here for years," my mother said, her voice firm but not entirely convincing. "If there was something… wrong, wouldn't we have noticed before?"
But I had noticed, and now I was sure I wasn't imagining it. That night, I decided to go back into my room, determined to face the shadow once and for all.
---
Armed with a flashlight and a handful of courage, I stepped into my room just as the clock struck midnight. I locked the door behind me, the sound of the latch clicking unnervingly loud in the stillness.
I sat on the bed, staring at the washroom door, waiting. The room felt heavier with each passing minute, the air charged with an invisible tension.
And then, it happened. The breathing began again, soft and steady, coming from the same corner as before. My flashlight flickered as I aimed it toward the desk, the beam trembling in my unsteady hands.
The shadow emerged, darker than ever, its form twisting and shifting unnaturally. This time, it didn't stop at the desk. It moved closer, faster, until it was right in front of me.
"You know now," it whispered, its voice colder than the grave.
"Know what?" I stammered, my voice barely audible.
The shadow leaned in, its formless presence enveloping me. "You're part of it now. The door is open, and it won't close again."
Before I could scream, the shadow vanished, leaving me gasping for air. I looked around the room, but it was gone. Everything was as it had been—except for the wall by the washroom door.
There, etched deeply into the surface, were words I would never forget:
"The door stays open."
The shadow had left its mark, not just on the wall, but on me. I didn't know what it meant yet, but I knew one thing for certain: this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.