The Amber Door

The first time I saw the amber door, I was twelve, living in a rented house on the edge of a town called Gristlewood. The house was old, with a warped porch and a furnace that groaned at night. My bedroom was at the end of a narrow hall, and the door was at the other end, always slightly ajar. It was painted a dull amber, the color of old honey, and no matter how many times I pushed it closed, I’d wake to find it cracked open, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond.

I told my parents, but they said it was just the wind or the house settling. But I knew better. I could feel it watching me. At night, I’d lie in bed, my back to the door, and I’d feel a pressure at the base of my skull, like a thumb pressing on a bruise. And I’d hear a sound, faint, like a child humming, but the pitch was wrong, too low, and it made my teeth ache.

One night, I woke to absolute silence. The furnace had stopped its grumbling. The usual creaks and groans were gone. The humming had stopped too. I turned over slowly, my heart hammering, and there, standing in the doorway, was a figure. It was tall, impossibly thin, its limbs bent at angles that shouldn’t be possible. And its eyes—they were not eyes but two swirling pools of amber light, like the door itself had come alive. I wanted to scream, but my throat was locked.

The creature didn’t move, but I felt it pulling me, a tug in my chest, like a fish on a line. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper, and I threw the covers off and ran. I didn’t stop until I was on the front lawn, shivering in my pajamas. The house behind me was dark, but I could see the amber glow from my bedroom window, pulsating like a beating heart.

After that, I refused to sleep in that room. I dragged my mattress into my brother’s room, but the sightings continued. I’d find the door open no matter where I slept. I’d find my toys—a favorite teddy bear, a toy car—placed in a perfect line down the hallway, as if the creature had been playing with them. My parents thought I was acting out, so they sent me to a therapist, but I couldn’t explain it. The therapist said it was a ‘childish fear of the dark.’ I knew the truth.

Years passed. I grew up, moved away, but I never forgot the amber door. I’d have dreams where I’d walk down that hall, the door drawing me closer, and I’d see myself through the crack, lying in bed, my eyes open, unblinking. I’d wake up gasping, my hand reaching for something that wasn’t there.

When I turned thirty, my parents sold the house. They sent me a picture of it before the sale, and in the background, a shadowy figure stood in the upstairs window. I burned the picture, but it didn’t help. The door came with me. I started finding it in my apartment, in the bedroom, in the bathroom, always at the far end of the hall, always slightly open.

Last night, I woke to find that I was not in my bed. I was standing in the hallway, facing the door. It was wide open. The space beyond was not dark—it was a swirl of amber light, and I could hear that humming again, but now it was close, right behind me. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice, dry as dust, whispered in my ear, ‘You’ve been looking for me all these years.’

I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up this morning in my own bed, but everything looks different. The colors are slightly off. The air smells like old wood and dust. And in every mirror, I see a thin, tall figure standing behind me, its amber eyes watching me with a patient hunger. I now understand: I never found the door. It found me. And now, it has taken me into its home, and there is no way out.