The Bedroom Door

I’m Marek, and last night, the night before my fifteenth birthday, I was alone in the living room of our old farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Forest. My parents and their friend, Old Man Petrov, were out on the porch, drinking and laughing, while my younger brothers had fallen asleep in front of the TV. The only light came from the flickering screen, casting long shadows that danced on the peeling wallpaper.

I was half-watching some sitcom when I heard it: the creak of my bedroom door upstairs, followed by footsteps padding down the hallway. I froze, my heart hammering. The house was old, and every step groaned, but these were soft, deliberate. I knew no one was inside; the only other person was Petrov, and he was outside. The footsteps descended the stairs, unhurried, and then stopped at the living room entrance. I felt the couch cushion dip beside me, as if someone had sat down, though I saw no one.

A woman’s voice, cold and sharp, whispered directly into my ear: ‘I’m warning you. Elias won’t be happy with you.’ The name sent a jolt through me—Elias was the man who had hanged himself in the barn five years ago, and his wife, Anna, had followed him a week later, drowning in the well. The stories said they haunted the farm, angry that the land had been sold after their deaths.

I remembered what my friend, Lily, had told me: never show fear, always ask why. So I swallowed and managed, ‘Why?’

There was a gasp, then the sound of footsteps running out of the room, the front door slamming. I sat there, shaking, furious at myself for being scared. But then I heard a loud bang from my closet upstairs. A man’s voice boomed, ‘Get out!’

Without thinking, I bolted up the stairs to the den, the room where we kept old junk. I slammed the door and sank against it, my breath ragged. The house fell silent, but I knew it wasn’t over.

For hours, I sat in that dusty den, listening. The floorboards creaked as if someone walked the halls, and once, I heard a faint humming, a lullaby I remembered my mother singing to my brothers. But it was off-key, wrong. I didn’t sleep.

At dawn, I crept downstairs. The living room was untouched, but in my bedroom, I found something chilling: written in the dust on my mirror was the date—tomorrow. And beneath it, a single word: ‘Elias.’

That’s when I understood. The woman wasn’t warning me about a curfew; she was warning me about what Elias would do if I didn’t leave. But I had nowhere to go. So I did the only thing I could think of: I called Lily, but she didn’t answer. I was alone.

As the sun rose, I heard the front door creak open downstairs, and heavy footsteps began to climb the stairs. The bedroom door is open now, and I can see a shadow stretching across the floor, growing longer. I don’t know how this ends, but I know it won’t be good. I should have listened to the woman. I should have asked why sooner. But now it’s too late. I can only sit here, waiting for Elias to come, and hope that somehow, I survive the night.