The Door That Locked Itself

We moved into the Ainsley house in late October, a favor from my mother’s old friend, Mrs. Calder. The place was a relic of another century, all creaking floorboards and drafty hallways, but it was free, and that was all we could afford. My daughter, Lily, was barely two, and I was eight months pregnant with a boy we’d decided to name Thomas. His father, Marcus, was supposed to join us as soon as he found work in the city, but for now, it was just Lily and me.

The master bedroom was the largest, with tall windows that showed the skeletal trees of the backyard. It was cold—bone-chillingly cold, no matter how high I turned the ancient radiator. I asked my father to come check the heating, but he found nothing wrong. He suggested it was just the draft from the windows, and I tried to believe that.

But after a few weeks, Lily began to scream every time I left her alone in that room. She’d point at the corner near the closet and cry, ‘No, no, no.’ I’d soothe her, but the unease lingered. Then, my bed—a rickety brass thing—collapsed three nights in a row, as if someone had kicked the legs out from under me. I gave up and moved our sleeping arrangements to the couch downstairs, leaving the bedroom door shut.

That’s when the door started locking itself. Every morning, I’d find the bedroom door locked from the inside. The old lock was finicky, requiring a butter knife to jimmy it open. I kept one on the kitchen counter, a constant reminder that something was off.

One evening, I was in the living room, halfway through a book, when I heard a faint scratching from above. I thought it was a squirrel on the roof, but then I heard a child’s giggled—not Lily’s, but a higher, thinner sound. I froze, my heart pounding. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but there was only silence.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, I crept upstairs. The door was ajar, despite my certainty that I’d closed it. I pushed it open slowly, the hinges groaning. The room was even colder than before, and the air smelled faintly of mothballs and something sweet, like decayed flowers. I took a step inside and saw that the closet door—the one Lily always pointed at—was open. Inside, instead of clothes, there was a narrow, dark opening in the wall. I’d never noticed it before.

My breath fogged in the chill. I moved closer, my hand trembling on the doorframe. From the darkness, I heard that giggle again, and then a voice, small and brittle, like dead leaves: ‘Play with me.’ I slammed the closet door shut and ran downstairs, grabbing Lily and holding her tight. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognize.

The next day, I called Mrs. Calder, who had owned the house for decades. In a hesitant voice, she asked if I’d found the door in the closet. She told me that the house had been built over an old well, and that a young girl—her own daughter, Alice—had fallen in and drowned in the 1960s. She said the room was Alice’s, and she’d always been a lonely child. Mrs. Calder whispered, ‘She likes to play with other children.’ I hung up, my skin crawling.

That night, I heard scratching at the bedroom door again, but this time, it was different. It was rhythmic, like someone knocking in a pattern. And then a soft voice, almost a whisper, said, ‘Let me in.’ Lily stirred beside me, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. ‘Mommy,’ she said, ‘Alice is cold.’ I held her tighter, my mind racing.

I called Marcus, but he was hours away. I called my father, but he said there was nothing he could do. So I made a decision. I packed our few belongings into the car, loaded Lily into her car seat, and grabbed the butter knife. I walked back up the stairs, the floorboards groaning beneath me. The bedroom door was locked again. I slipped the knife in, jiggled the lock, and opened the door.

The room was dark, the only light from the moon. The closet door was wide open, and from the blackness of the well, two small, pale hands reached out. They were the hands of a child, but the fingers were too long, and the skin looked like wax. A face emerged—a girl with hollow eyes and a smile that split her cheeks.

‘You’re leaving,’ she said, not a question. ‘But I want to play.’ I backed away, but the cold had seeped into my bones, making my limbs heavy. I dropped the butter knife, and it clattered on the floor. The girl’s eyes flicked to it, and she frowned.

‘You won’t need that,’ she said, ‘because I’m coming with you.’ I turned and ran, scooping Lily out of her seat in the hallway, and ran down the stairs. As I rushed out the front door, I glanced back. In the upstairs window, a faint silhouette of a girl stood watching.

I drove all night, not stopping until we reached Marcus’s apartment. But even there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. And now, every time I pass a mirror, I catch a glimpse of a pale face that isn’t mine. And sometimes, when I tuck Thomas into his crib, I hear a faint giggle from the dark corner of the room, and I know Alice has found us.