The Door That Counts

The maple syrup and glue mingled in the air of the parish hall, a smell that ought to have been comforting. We were a ragtag bunch of Brownies, nine and ten years old, our weekend camping trip reduced to indoor crafts when the weather turned spiteful. I was elbow-deep in a lopsided pinecone hedgehog, my tongue poking out in concentration, when a strange quiet settled over the room.

My mother had gone to our shared cabin to fetch the glitter and pipe cleaners, a task that should have taken two minutes at most. Now, the hands on the clock above the door had crawled past the seven-minute mark, and I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. I looked around at the other girls, their heads bent over their own creations, and at the two other mothers who were patiently untangling yarn. No one else seemed to notice.

Then the kitchen door swung open, and my mother stood there, pale as the paste we used for papier-mâché. Her voice was thin, frayed. ‘That wasn’t funny, guys.’ We all looked up, our scissors paused mid-cut. Mrs. Albright, my best friend’s mom, frowned. ‘What do you mean, Clara? We’ve been right here.’ My mother’s eyes darted around the room, searching our faces, and I saw a tremor in her hand. She told us about the closet—the one in our cabin that had no lock, only a simple brass knob. She had gone inside to reach the top shelf, and when she turned to leave, the door wouldn’t budge. She pushed, pulled, rattled the knob, but it was as if something on the other side was holding it shut with inhuman strength. And then—her voice dropped to a whisper—she heard a voice on the other side, a voice that sounded like mine, saying, ‘Let me in, Mom.’

A chill ran through me, and I felt the other girls go still. I rushed to her, hugged her tight, and felt her trembling. ‘It was probably a prank,’ I said, but even I didn’t believe it. Mrs. Albright and the other mom exchanged glances. ‘There’s no lock on that door, Clara,’ Mrs. Albright said slowly. ‘And no one left this room. We’ve been here the whole time.’ For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the drip of a faucet in the kitchen.

We tried to brush it off, returning to our crafts, but the mood had soured. I kept glancing at my mother, who was now sitting in a corner, clutching a cup of lukewarm tea. She wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. As the afternoon wore on, the story spread among the girls in hushed tones, but we were young, and the promise of s’mores at the campfire (indoors, by the fireplace) soon distracted us.

That night, we all slept in the main cabin, a long room lined with bunk beds. My mother and the other moms were in a corner, talking in low voices. I lay in my bunk, listening to the wind and the creaks of the old building. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was awake, and the room was silent. The moonlight cast pale rectangles on the floor. I needed to use the bathroom, so I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the hall.

I was about to push open the bathroom door when I heard a voice, faint and muffled. It was coming from the supply closet at the end of the hall, the one we weren’t supposed to go into. The voice was high and childish, and it was singing our camp song, but with wrong words. ‘The door that counts, the door that waits, it counts the steps, it never gates.’ I froze. The singing stopped. Then the closet door creaked open, just a crack.

I should have run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The crack widened, and I saw a face peering out—a face that was a perfect mirror of mine, but with eyes like black marbles. It smiled, and its mouth opened wider than should be possible, and it said, ‘Your turn.’ The door began to close, and I saw something in there: a small shape, crumpled in the corner. My mom’s scarf. But I was here. She was in the other room.

A hand shot out from the crack and grabbed my wrist. It was cold, and it was strong, and it pulled me toward the closet. I screamed, but no sound came out. The door slammed shut, and I was inside, in total darkness. I felt around, my hands trembling, and I touched the back wall, the shelf with old games. There was no knob on the inside. I was trapped.

I listened, and I heard the voice again, now right next to my ear: ‘It counts the steps, it never gates. Now you count, and wait.’ I felt a panic rise, but I forced myself to count, to keep my mind busy. One, two, three… I counted to a hundred, and then I heard footsteps outside. The door creaked open, and my mother stood there, her face lit by a flashlight. ‘There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.’ She pulled me out, and I clung to her, sobbing.

But as we walked back to the room, I looked back at the closet, and the door was slightly ajar. I saw the outline of a figure, and it waved. I turned away, burying my face in my mother’s shoulder, and I vowed never to go near that closet again. But that night, I learned something: the door had indeed counted—seven minutes for my mother, and maybe a hundred seconds for me. And I knew, with a cold certainty, that the count would not last forever. Next time, it might be longer.