The Room That Was Never Locked

The room was always there, yet no one talked about it. It sat at the end of the hallway in the old house, quiet and unnoticed. The door was never locked. It didn’t need to be.

When Arman moved into the house, he noticed it on the first day. The landlord mentioned every room except that one. Arman assumed it was storage or simply unused. Old houses often had forgotten spaces.

At night, the hallway felt longer than it should. The lights flickered, and shadows stretched across the walls. Arman told himself it was just his imagination adjusting to a new place. Still, he avoided walking past that door after dark.

One night, around 2 a.m., Arman heard a sound. It was soft, like someone shifting their weight. He sat up in bed, holding his breath. The sound came again—slow footsteps in the hallway.

Arman lived alone.

He listened carefully. The footsteps stopped near the end of the hall. Near the open room. Then silence returned, thick and heavy.

The next morning, Arman checked the house. Everything was normal. Doors closed. Windows locked. The room at the end of the hall stood open, just as before. Empty. Dusty. Harmless.

He laughed at himself and went to work. But that night, the sound returned. This time, it was clearer. Not footsteps—breathing. Deep, slow breathing, as if someone was standing just outside his door.

Arman did not open his door. He stayed still until morning.

Days passed, and strange things began happening. Objects moved slightly. A chair turned toward the hallway. A picture frame fell without reason. Arman felt watched, even when alone in daylight.

One evening, unable to ignore it anymore, he decided to explore the room. He carried a flashlight and stood in front of the door. The air felt colder there. He stepped inside.

The room was small and plain. No furniture. No windows. Just walls and a floor covered in old marks—scratches, like fingernails dragged across wood. Arman felt uneasy but told himself it was from previous tenants.

As he turned to leave, his flashlight flickered. In that brief moment of darkness, he heard a whisper.

“Don’t close it.”

His heart raced. The room was empty. He ran out and left the door open, just as it had always been.

That night, the breathing returned—closer than before. This time, Arman saw something. A shadow on the wall, shaped like a person but stretched wrong, as if it didn’t understand human form.

He couldn’t move. The shadow stood still, then slowly retreated down the hallway, back into the room.

The next morning, Arman searched online. He found an old post about the house. A former tenant had written about the room. According to the post, the room was never meant to be closed. It was a boundary, not a space.

Someone had once tried to seal it. That tenant disappeared.

Arman packed his things immediately. As he walked down the hallway one last time, he noticed the room looked darker than usual. The air felt heavy, waiting.

Just before leaving, he heard the whisper again—clearer now.

“You were polite. You didn’t shut me in.”

Arman didn’t look back. He left the house and never returned.

Years later, the house was sold again. New tenants moved in. The listing mentioned many things—renovated kitchen, quiet neighborhood, old charm.

It did not mention the room at the end of the hall.

The door was still open.

Some doors are not locked because they don’t want to be opened. They want to be respected. And the ones who understand that are allowed to leave.

The rest stay.