The Whispering Door

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door.”

My eyes landed on the ancient wooden frame, its surface weathered and scarred, as if something had ripped its way out on either side of it. A hundred times, Grandpa had told me that, his voice shaking every time. Whatever you hear, don't open the door.

That rule weighed upon my chest tonight. Just past midnight, the whispering started, softly at first, like the wind through the trees. Then they became louder and more frantic.

A voice whispered from behind the door, "Help me." It was my mother's voice, even though she died many years ago.

My heart racing, I pressed my ear against the wood. "Mom?" I could hardly believe I was whispering.

"Open the door, please. I'm confined.

Shaking, my hand hovered over the lock. It couldn't be her. Grandpa had warned us all about the door, including me. But she sounded just so real and pained.

"I'm so cold," she argued.

The tears blinded my eyes as my fingers wrapped around the handle. *Just a crack, maybe,* I thought. Just enough to know she was OK, to see her.

But I had barely turned the knob when I got a chill. From the other side came a low growl, and the sound shifted—distorted—into something hideous.

I slammed the door again, this time too late.

The murmurs started again this time more softly.

And this time they called my name.