The Dark Circle at the Doorway

I’m not a brave girl. I’ve never been the type to watch horror movies alone or wander into the attic without a flashlight. But since I turned thirteen last spring, I’ve started to notice things that don’t quite fit. Our house is only eleven years old, built the year we moved in, so there’s no ancient history to blame. It’s just a normal house on a normal street in a new development, but lately, it feels like the walls are breathing.

It began a month ago. I was heading to the bathroom, passing my brother’s room on the right. My brother, Daniel, is five years older and away at college, so his room is mostly empty, except for an old desk and a bed that’s always neatly made. As I passed the doorway, I caught a glimpse of something dark in the corner of my eye. I stopped and turned, but there was nothing. I shrugged it off, but the next night, I saw it again—a perfect black circle, about five inches across, floating in the center of the doorway, about two feet above the floor. It was so dark it looked like a hole in reality, a small void that seemed to swallow the light from the hallway. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was just a shadow from the ceiling light, but shadows don’t move like that.

Over the weeks, the circle appeared more often. It would show up whenever I passed Daniel’s room, whether the door was open or closed. It never moved, just hung there, patient and silent. At first, I felt a chill every time I saw it, but after a while, I began to feel a strange pull, like it was waiting for me to acknowledge it. I started taking the long way around the kitchen to avoid the hallway, but sometimes I’d forget, and there it was again.

Last night, the events escalated. I was sitting on my bed, wiping off my makeup with a cotton pad, when my cat, Pip, who was lounging at my feet, suddenly sat up, his ears perked. His pupils dilated, and his fur stood on end. He let out a low growl, which I had never heard from him before, then he started darting around the room in frantic circles, leaping onto my desk and knocking over my pencil cup, then skittering across the floor like he was chasing something I couldn’t see. I tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t come near me. He kept his eyes fixed on a spot behind me, and when I turned, I saw it—the dark circle, hovering right in my doorway, larger this time, maybe seven inches across. Before I could react, my laundry hamper, which was resting against the wall, tipped over and spilled its contents across the carpet. I screamed, and Pip bolted under my bed.

When I woke up this morning, my cheek was stinging. I went to the bathroom and saw a fresh scratch, about three inches long, running from my jaw up to my ear. It was thin, like a paper cut, but it burned. I wear contacts 24/7—I never take them out—so my vision is perfect. I knew my cat didn’t do it; he sleeps curled at the foot of my bed, and I’m such a light sleeper that I wake up if he even shifts his weight. There was no way he could have scratched me without my knowing.

I’m sitting in my room now, typing this, and I can feel it watching me from the doorway. I’ve propped my chair against the door, but I can see the shadow under it, and there’s a cold draft coming through the gap. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s getting stronger. I called my mom, but she just said I was being imaginative. I haven’t left my room all day. The scratch on my cheek throbs, and I swear I can see a faint, dark ring forming around it, like a bruise that isn’t a bruise. I don’t know if I’m going to sleep tonight. I don’t think the circle is just a spot anymore. It’s a door, and I’m afraid it’s opening.