The house you inherited was old—decades, perhaps centuries old. It was a grand, decaying mansion at the edge of the forest, its once majestic façade now battered and worn by time. The family that had lived there for generations had mysteriously disappeared, and it was left untouched, as if the house itself was waiting for someone to return.
You didn't care about the rumors surrounding the place. The townspeople spoke of strange noises at night, of figures seen in the windows when no one was supposed to be there. You didn't believe in ghosts. You thought it was just the wind, the trees creaking, the house settling.
But there was one room. The one room you had always been drawn to, even before you stepped foot inside. It was at the end of the long, narrow hallway, its door always shut. There were no windows in it, just an old wooden door, chipped and faded. Something about it called to you.
The first time you tried to open it, the door wouldn't budge. You assumed it was just locked and forgot about it. But over time, as the days wore on, the door began to bother you more. It became an obsession. The house felt alive, its groans and whispers ever present, but that room was different. It felt... wrong.
One night, the door was open.
You had gone to bed early, exhausted by the silence that the house seemed to suffocate you with, when you heard it—a faint sound. A creak, like the sound of a floorboard shifting. Your eyes shot open. You sat up in bed, the blankets tangled around your legs, and your heart pounded in your chest. You felt it—the pressure, the strange sensation that someone—or something—was near.
And then, you heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening.
You jumped out of bed, your feet landing silently on the cold floor. As you made your way down the hall, your footsteps echoed louder than they should have, but you couldn't stop yourself. You reached the door.
It was open.
A thin beam of moonlight cut through the gap in the door, casting long, twisted shadows across the floor. You hesitated. The air in front of you felt thick, suffocating, as if the room was holding its breath. Your hand trembled as you reached out to push the door further open.
Inside was nothing. The room was empty, just four bare walls and a threadbare carpet. The only thing that stood out was the unsettling feeling that filled the air, as though the room had never been empty at all. It was like a presence had been there... and then left, but never fully gone.
You turned to leave, but something caught your eye. A small, crumpled piece of paper lay on the floor near the far corner of the room. You approached it cautiously, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Kneeling down, you picked up the paper.
It was a single, simple line of text:
"You shouldn't have opened it."
A cold shiver ran down your spine, but before you could stand, the door slammed shut behind you. The sudden sound was deafening, and you stumbled backward, your heart racing as your breath caught in your throat.
Panic gripped you as you tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. You pulled at the handle, tugged, pushed—but nothing.
Then, you heard it. The whisper.
"You shouldn't have opened it."
It was faint, like a distant voice echoing from within the walls. You turned around, your back pressed to the door, your breath shallow. The air felt heavier now, thick with something you couldn't place. The shadows around you seemed to lengthen, stretching unnaturally across the walls. The room was changing, shifting.
The walls began to close in. Slowly at first, but then faster, like the room was collapsing toward you. The floor beneath your feet started to tremble, and the shadows on the walls danced wildly, mocking your fear.
Then, you saw it. The shape.
It was standing in the corner.
A figure, tall and thin, its form barely visible against the darkness. Its face was a featureless blur, just a void of blackness that seemed to suck in all the light around it. It moved slowly, deliberately, its long arms reaching out toward you. It didn't walk, it floated, gliding across the floor with an unnatural grace.
You tried to scream, but your throat was dry, the air too thick to form a sound. The figure took another step, and another, until it was right in front of you.
And then it whispered again, but this time, the words weren't from the walls.
They were from the thing itself.
"You shouldn't have opened it."
Your knees buckled beneath you as you collapsed to the floor, your mind spinning, your body frozen in place. You could feel it now—the presence, the pressure, the weight of something ancient and malevolent. It wasn't just a figure. It was the room. It was alive. And it had been waiting.
The door behind you, the one that had been locked, was now wide open.
But the figure was already there, blocking your escape. It leaned in close, its presence suffocating, and you could feel its cold breath against your skin.
"You opened it," it whispered, "and now you belong to it."
The room felt like it was closing in on you, and you realized with horrifying clarity that it had never been empty. It had been waiting, always waiting for someone like you to walk through the door.
And now, you were trapped. The room had claimed you.
The house never forgets.
It never lets go.