The Door That Breathed

When we moved to the alpine village of Sankt Erhard, I thought the old farmhouse would be a fresh start. The timber beams creaked like old bones, and the air smelled of pine and damp earth. But the first night, I heard it: a slow, rhythmic rasping from the loft above my bedroom, like something dragging itself across the floorboards. My mother said it was the house settling, or maybe a squirrel. ‘Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Lena,’ she’d say, her hands busy kneading dough for the morning.

My friend Mira came to visit during the autumn holidays. We were lying on my bed, speaking in hushed voices about boys and school, when she stopped mid-sentence. ‘Lena, is your father up there?’ She pointed at the ceiling. The same sound—thump, thump, shuffle—echoed from the loft. I told my mother, but she just rolled her eyes. ‘You’re both letting your imaginations run wild. There’s nothing up there but dust.’

That night, Mira stayed over. We were in our sleeping bags, whispering about the sound, when it started again. This time it was louder, more insistent, like heavy footsteps and something scratching against the wood. We called my parents. My father came up, flashlight in hand, and listened. ‘I don’t hear anything,’ he said, frowning. My mother stood by the door, arms crossed. ‘You girls need to sleep. It’s just the wind.’

But we knew better. After they left, we crept to the stairway that led to the loft. The door at the top was usually closed, shut tight with a rusty latch. That night, it was ajar, a black gap spilling cold air down the stairs. Our hearts pounded as we climbed. The fifth step groaned like it was in pain. At the top, the door swung wider on its own, as if inviting us in.

The room was filled with old furniture draped in white sheets, casting ghostly shapes. The air was heavy, and the smell of mothballs and something metallic clung to our nostrils. The footsteps had stopped, but we felt eyes on us, watching from the dark corners. Then, the door behind us slammed shut with a deafening bang. We screamed, fumbled for the handle, and tore back down the stairs, tripping over each other. We didn’t sleep that night, huddled together under my covers, listening to the silence.

In the morning, we told my parents again. My father finally went up, but found nothing disturbed. He laughed it off, but my mother was pale, her hands trembling as she served breakfast. She kept glancing at the stairway. That afternoon, while Mira and I were playing in the yard, we saw a face at the loft window—pale, with dark hollow eyes. It was gone in an instant. We screamed, but when my parents looked, nothing was there.

That evening, my mother took me aside. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Lena, there’s something I never told you. This house… it belonged to a man who lost his wife and daughter in an avalanche. He stayed here alone for years, until he was found in the attic, dead. They say he never left.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. The footsteps, the door—maybe he was still searching for his family, or maybe he was angry that we had invaded his place.

That night, I lay awake, tense and listening. At exactly 2:33 AM, the footsteps started again, slow and heavy. Then I heard an old man’s voice, hoarse and broken, from the room above. ‘Liesel, come back to me.’ I pulled my covers over my head, tears streaming down my face. The sound of creaking wood grew closer, as if something was coming down the stairs. The door to my room began to rattle, ever so gently. I squeezed my eyes shut, held my breath, and prayed for daylight.

When morning came, the door was open a crack. I could see a faint footprint in the dust on the floor, small, like a child’s. Mira and I left that day, and my mother finally agreed to move. But as we drove down the mountain, I looked back at the house. In the attic window, a pale face with dark eyes stared at us, and the mouth moved silently, forming the words, ‘You’ll be back.’ I never told my parents. Some doors are better left closed.