The Blue Door of Hollow Creek

I grew up in a small town in the Pacific Northwest, where the rain was a constant companion and the woods pressed in on every side. Our house was an old Victorian that had seen better days, with peeling paint and a creaking porch that my father always promised to fix but never did. Inside, the rooms were large and drafty, and the walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper that seemed to shift in the dim light. Our living room, where I spent most of my evenings, was dominated by a massive stone fireplace that always felt cold, no matter how many logs we burned. The floor was covered in a thick, worn carpet that smelled of dust and old memories, and the walls were paneled with dark, heavy wood that seemed to absorb sound.

On the far side of the room, two hallways branched off like dark tunnels. The left one led to the back of the house, where the bedrooms were, and it was blocked by a heavy, old wooden door that had been painted a deep blue. I remember that door because it was always closed, and I was never allowed to open it. My parents said it was just a closet, but I never saw them go in or out of it, and the door always seemed to emanate a faint, icy draft, even in summer.

One evening, when I was about seven, a fierce storm rolled in from the sea. The rain hammered against the windows, and the wind howled through the eaves like something alive. My parents were in the kitchen, talking in low, worried tones, and I was in the living room, sprawled on the carpet with my crayons and a stack of drawings. I was sketching a triceratops, its horns jagged and sharp, when I began to feel sleepy. The sound of the rain was hypnotic, and the warmth of the fireplace, despite its cold stone, lulled me into a doze.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was awake, but everything was different. The room was darker, and the fire had died down to embers. The rain was still falling, but it seemed muffled, as if the house itself was holding its breath. And then I heard it: a scraping sound, like claws on wood, coming from the direction of the blue door. It was accompanied by a low, guttural grunting, as if something was trying to push it open.

I sat up, my heart pounding, and stared at the door. The scraping stopped, and then started again, more insistent. I called out for my parents, but my voice was swallowed by the heavy silence. I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn’t move. The grunting grew louder, and the door began to rattle on its hinges. I could see a thin line of darkness around the edges, as if something on the other side was pressing against it.

And then, the door opened a crack.

A pale, thin hand, with unnaturally long fingers, slipped through the gap, followed by another, and then a face. It was not human. Its skin was the color of old bone, stretched tight over a skull that seemed too large. Its eyes were black, without any white, and they fixed on me with an ancient hunger. It made a sound, a wet, clicking noise, and then it started to squeeze through the gap, its body bending in ways that were wrong.

I finally found my voice and screamed, a raw, jagged sound that tore from my throat. But the thing did not stop. It crawled out from behind the door, its limbs moving like a spider, and started toward me. Just as it reached me, I woke up.

I was on the carpet, my drawings scattered around me, my crayons broken in my grip. The fire was burning low, and the rain had stopped. My parents were standing over me, their faces pale in the dim light. My mother knelt down and asked if I was okay. I tried to tell them what I had seen, but the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was point at the blue door.

My father walked over to it, his footsteps heavy. He placed his hand on the handle, hesitated, and then opened it. Inside, there was only a dark, empty closet, with a single coat hanging from a rod. He closed it and came back to me, shaking his head. ‘It’s just a closet,’ he said. ‘You must have had a nightmare.’

But I knew what I had seen. And from that night on, I never went near that door again. I grew up, and we eventually moved away, and I almost forgot about that night. But now, decades later, I am back in that house, and the blue door is still there, still closed. And last night, I heard the scratching and the grunting again.

This time, I’m not a child. This time, I will open the door.