The Door at an Angle

It was late October when I found myself in the city of Chandigarh for a business conference. My father’s cousin, who lived there, had offered me his guest flat for the duration of my stay. He said it was an old property, recently renovated, but spacious and quiet. I arrived around 4 PM, tired from the three-hour drive from Delhi. The flat was on the fourth floor of a nondescript building, overlooking a park where the trees were turning orange. The interior was a mix of modern furniture and old teak wood cabinets, giving it a warm, lived-in feel. I immediately called my college friend, Priya, who had moved to Chandigarh after marriage, and she came over with some snacks and wine. We caught up on old times, laughing and talking until almost midnight. As she left, I felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, the kind that comes after a long day and emotional catch-up. I decided to turn in early, knowing I had a morning meeting. The flat had three bedrooms, but I only needed one. I chose the master bedroom, which had a large window facing the park. The room was cool, almost cold, despite the late autumn warmth outside. The previous tenant, my uncle’s tenant, must have kept the windows sealed. I tried to open one for some fresh air, but it was jammed, so I left them closed. The hallway light in the living room was on, and I left the bedroom door ajar to let a sliver of light in. It was a habit I had when staying in unfamiliar places, to avoid complete darkness.

The last thing I remember was lying on my side, facing the doorway, listening to the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. I must have dozed off within minutes. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke with a start, my heart racing. Something was wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint what, but I felt a presence in the room. The light from the hallway had dimmed, as if a cloud had passed over the moon, but I knew it was just an artificial source. I tried to move, but my limbs felt heavy, as if filled with lead. I could only roll my eyes towards the door. The door, which had been slightly ajar, was now beginning to move. It didn’t swing open slowly with a natural push. It moved in short, jarring jerks, as if someone on the other side was pulling it with violent tugs. It opened a few inches, then stopped, then a few more, then stopped again. The gap widened until I could see the hallway. But there was no one there. The light flickered, casting strange shadows that danced on the wall.

A sour smell filled the room, like stale sweat and something metallic. My stomach churned, but I was too terrified to vomit. I managed to whisper, ‘Who’s there?’ My voice came out as a croak, barely audible. The door responded with a violent slam against the wall, stopping at a 45-degree angle, as if an invisible force had pressed it and it would not go further. The sound echoed through the flat, and then everything fell silent. The light in the hallway went out completely, plunging me into darkness. I felt the temperature drop, and my breath misted. I could hear a low, guttural breathing coming from the other side of the door, just beyond the doorframe. It was not human. It was as if a large animal was waiting there, panting. And then, the door began to close, slowly, inch by inch, as if someone was pushing it from the other side, resisting the hinge that had been stuck. When it was almost shut, a sliver of a face appeared in the crack. It was gaunt, with hollow eyes that reflected the faint light from the park outside. The face had no expression, but its eyes were fixed on me. The door clicked shut with a soft finality.

The breathing stopped. I was alone, but the terror was overwhelming. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I struggled to move, and finally, with a great effort, I rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud. I lay there, panting, in the dark. My phone was on the nightstand, and I crawled towards it, my hands shaking. I grabbed it and turned on the flashlight, expecting to see something horrible in the room, but there was nothing. The door was shut. I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. I yanked it open, expecting to face a monster, but the hallway was empty, and the light was back on, flickering slightly. I walked through the entire flat, turning on every light, searching every corner. There was no one. I checked the windows, all locked. The front door was bolted from the inside. I was utterly alone.

But then I noticed something on the floor in the hallway. A faint, wet footprint, like a large bare foot, leading from the front door to the bedroom, and then back. It stopped in front of a closed closet that I had not explored. I stared at the closet door, my heart pounding. The handle was old, brass, slightly tarnished. I reached out, my hand trembling, and turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a dark interior. I shone my phone light inside, expecting to find a figure hunched in the shadows. Instead, I saw only a few old coat hangers and a dusty shelf. But at the back, there was a small, childlike handprint in the dust, as if someone had pressed their hand against the wall. And below it, the same sour smell concentrated. I immediately left the flat and called Priya, who came to pick me up at 2 AM. She saw the state I was in and didn’t question me, just drove me to her place. I never went back to that flat. My uncle later told me that the tenant who had lived there before had died in his sleep of a heart attack. He had a daughter who had died years earlier. He was found with his door open at a 45-degree angle.

I never told my uncle what I saw, but to this day, I cannot sleep with a door slightly ajar. The angle, that specific angle, haunts me. It’s like my brain is wired to detect it, to fear it. For a long time, I thought I had imagined it, but then I found a scratch on my arm. It wasn’t there when I went to bed. It was thin, like from a fingernail, and on my forearm, as if someone had grabbed me. And ever since that night, whenever I’m alone in a room, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a shadow at the edge of my vision, but when I turn, there’s nothing. And the sour smell lingers, following me, a constant reminder of that door at the angle.