The Door That Ate Her

I was six, maybe seven, when it happened. We lived in a cramped flat above a bakery in the old part of town. The stairwell always smelled of yeast and burnt sugar, and the floorboards creaked when the wind blew. Our home was just one room with a tiny kitchenette in the corner, and a bathroom that was more like a closet—barely enough space to turn around in. The door to it was warped, so it never closed properly, always hanging open just a crack.

That evening, my mother had gone next door to borrow a cup of flour from Mrs. Kovács. I was sitting on the floor, drawing with my crayons, when I heard the front door click. I looked up, and there she was—my mother, stepping inside. She moved strangely, her head tilted, her eyes fixed on the bathroom door. I jumped up, excited, and ran to her. ‘Mommy, look what I drew!’ I said, holding up my picture of a purple sun. But she didn’t even glance at me. She kept walking, her steps quiet on the wooden floor, as if she were gliding. ‘Mommy?’ I called, tugging at her sleeve, but she pulled away, her expression blank, as if I were invisible.

She walked straight into the bathroom, her back to me. I followed, my small feet padding behind her, my heart starting to beat faster. The bathroom door was open, as usual, and I stood in the doorway, expecting to see her turn on the light or reach for the cabinet. But the room was empty. The tiny space held only a sink, a toilet, and a cracked mirror. No mother. No shadow. Nothing. I blinked, my breath catching in my throat. I stepped in, my shoes squeaking on the damp tile, and I even checked behind the door, though there was no room back there. The bathroom was empty, just as it had been a moment before.

I ran out, screaming. I ran to Mrs. Kovács’s door, pounding on it until she opened. My mother was there, holding the cup of flour, her face alarmed. ‘What is it, little one?’ she asked. I tried to explain, gasping, but I couldn’t form the words. She hurried me back to our flat, but everything was normal. The bathroom was still empty. My mother smelled of bread and soap. But I couldn’t shake it. For weeks, I would not go near that bathroom. I would hold my pee until I was shaking, because I was terrified that the door would open, and I would see that other mother again, the one who walked through walls.

Years later, I told my mother about it. She laughed, saying I must have dreamed it. But I never forgot. And when I moved away, I always avoided bathrooms with doors that hung open just a crack. Because I know what I saw. That door didn’t just open into a bathroom. It opened into a space where the world doubled for just a moment, and my mother was stolen by the version of her that lived in a silent, hollow place. I still wonder, sometimes, if that other mother is still there, waiting behind a door, for someone to step in and take her place.