The Room That Was Never Locked

I moved into the old apartment because it was cheap and close to my college. The building stood quietly at the corner of a narrow street, its walls dull and tired, as if it had seen too many lives pass through it. The landlord was an elderly man with slow movements and sharp eyes. When he handed me the keys, his grip tightened for a moment, as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.

“There are three rooms,” he said calmly. “But you will only need two.” I smiled politely, assuming he meant one room was too small or useless. I did not ask questions. At that moment, I was more concerned about rent than warnings.

The apartment seemed normal at first. There was a small kitchen, a living room, my bedroom, and a narrow hallway that ended at a strange door. That door looked older than the rest, its paint cracked and peeling. What stood out most was that it had no lock. When I tried to open it, it did not move. It was not jammed; it felt as if someone was pressing against it from the other side. I stepped back, uneasy, then laughed at myself and decided to ignore it.

For the first few days, life went on peacefully. I attended classes, cooked simple meals, and returned home late in the evening. The apartment was quiet, except for the soft sounds of pipes and distant footsteps from other tenants. Slowly, I began to feel comfortable, almost safe, in that space.

One night, everything changed.

I woke up suddenly, my heart pounding for no clear reason. The room was dark and silent, but then I heard it—a slow, steady breathing sound. It was not coming from my room. It was coming from the hallway. The sound was calm, patient, and terrifyingly close. I held my breath, listening, hoping it would stop. After a few moments, the silence returned, and I convinced myself it was only my imagination.

The next morning, I noticed the hallway door was open. Just a little. I was sure I had closed it the night before. With hesitation, I pushed it open fully. Inside was an empty room with gray walls, a dusty floor, and no windows. The air felt cold, heavy, and uncomfortable. I stepped back out quickly and shut the door, my hands trembling.

That night, the breathing returned, louder than before. This time, it was closer, clearer, and impossible to ignore. I sat up in bed, staring into the darkness, feeling as if something was aware of me. The door at the end of the hallway was open again, wider than before. I did not move. Fear held me still

The next day, I called the landlord. When I asked him about the room, he went quiet. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and serious. He told me that the room had been sealed years ago and that I should never open it. Before I could ask more, he ended the call.

That night, I pushed a chair against my bedroom door and left all the lights on. I tried to distract myself with music, but the feeling of being watched never left. Around midnight, the lights flickered, and the breathing began again. This time, it was inside the apartment, moving slowly, step by step.

My phone vibrated suddenly. The message was from an unknown number. It read, “Why did you open the door?” My hands shook as I typed back, asking who it was. The reply came instantly: “I was locked away. You let me breathe again.”

Something pushed gently against my bedroom door. Not hard, not violent—just enough to let me know it was there. Waiting. I ran to the window, climbed onto the fire escape, and fled into the night without looking back.

The next day, I returned with the police. Inside the apartment, everything was different. There was no hallway. No extra room. Only a smooth wall where the door had been. The officers looked at me with concern and confusion.

As we left the building, my phone vibrated one last time. The message said, “Some doors disappear, but what was opened never truly leaves.”