The Door That Wouldn’t Stay Shut

In the sweltering August of 2006, my husband and I were living with my mother-in-law, Clara, after our own house had become unlivable. The living room ceiling had come down in July, a wet, crumbling mess of plaster and lath, and we were in the process of gutting the place. My friend Jenna had come over to help me pack the kitchen. She wasn’t fond of our bathroom, not since a prank gone wrong. I had once locked her in there, and when we tried to let her out, the door wouldn’t budge. She’d had to kick it open. After that, she never used that bathroom unless the door was wide open and someone stood guard.

On that particular day, we were packing boxes, stacking them in the living room where the ceiling had fallen. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood. Jenna suddenly grimaced, clutching her stomach. ‘I need to go,’ she said, her eyes darting toward the hallway. ‘You know the drill.’ So I followed her down the hall, my footsteps echoing on the warped floorboards. She pushed the bathroom door open, propping it with a small rubber stopper she’d brought just for this purpose. The door was ajar about six inches, just enough for her to feel comfortable, but not enough to block the view of the corridor. I stood outside, leaning against the wall, watching the crack of light from the bathroom.

Jenna finished and flushed, and as she went to wash her hands, the door suddenly slammed shut. The stopper skittered across the tile floor. ‘Hey! Stop it!’ she called out, laughing nervously. But I hadn’t moved. I was still leaning against the wall, my arms crossed. ‘I didn’t do that,’ I said, a chill running down my spine. Jenna tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. She rattled it, but it was as if the lock had engaged on its own. ‘Open it!’ she shouted, her voice rising. I tried the knob from my side, but it was stuck. I pushed, and the door didn’t budge. It felt like there was something on the other side, pressing back. I threw my shoulder against it, and still, it held. ‘Jenna, are you pushing?’ I yelled. ‘No! It won’t open!’ she cried.

Then we heard it: a soft, rhythmic scratching from inside the bathroom, like nails dragging along the inside of the door. Jenna began to scream, a high-pitched, jagged sound that tore through the still air. ‘Something’s in here!’ she cried. ‘Something’s in the mirror!’ I threw my weight against the door again, and this time it gave way with a sudden give, as if something had released it. Jenna tumbled out, her face pale, her eyes wide. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in. ‘There’s a shadow in there,’ she said, panting. ‘I saw it in the mirror. It had this long, thin body, like a spider, but human. And it was reaching for me.’ I peered inside, but the bathroom was empty, the mirror clean, the shower curtain still. The door, however, was shut.

We packed the rest of the kitchen in a hurry, tossing things into boxes without care. Every few minutes, we’d hear a faint thump from the bathroom, like something heavy being moved. Jenna refused to go back in there, and I didn’t blame her. We finished and carried the boxes to the living room, where we stacked them near the collapsed ceiling. The hole was a dark maw, with bits of lath and plaster jutting out like broken teeth. As we set the last box down, a small piece of plaster fell from the ceiling and landed at our feet. Then another. Then a steady rain of debris. We looked up, and in the gaping hole, we saw a pair of pale, shiny eyes staring down at us.

We ran. We left the house that day and never went back. We told everyone it was mold, a gas leak, a bad foundation. But I know what we saw. And now, years later, whenever I close a door, I always leave it ajar. Because I know that once a door is fully shut, there are things that can come through.

That bathroom door never opened on its own again, but it didn’t need to. It had already let something in. And it’s still there, in that house, waiting for the next person to close the door.