The red door had always been there, at the end of the third-floor hallway in my apartment building sealed shut, locked tight, never used. No one talked about it. The landlord brushed it off when asked, claiming it was just a storage room. But one night, I heard scratching from behind it. Soft at first, like fingernails dragging across wood. Then came the whispering words I couldn’t quite make out, but they pulled at me, made my skin crawl. That night, I dreamt of the door opening on its own.
The next morning, the lock was gone. Not broken. Just… gone. A single note had been taped to the door in jagged handwriting “Don’t open it. It remembers.” I stared at the handle for what felt like hours. The whispering was louder now, clearer my name, over and over, like a chant. I knew I shouldn’t touch it, but something inside me wanted to. Craved to. Whatever was behind that red door, it wasn’t meant to be freed. But I was already too close. And I think it knew. Shutdown123