The Doorway’s Gaze

Three years ago, I moved into a quaint but narrow apartment with my partner, Jonas. The building was old, with creaking floors and radiators that clanked like ghostly chains. Our flat was on the third floor, accessible by a winding staircase that always smelled of dust and old wood. The layout was simple: a long hallway greeted you at the entrance, with the bathroom to the right, the bedroom to the left, and at the end, a wide opening leading to the combined kitchen and living area. There was no door there, just an open frame that seemed to watch you as you moved about.

From the moment we stepped inside, I felt an odd weight in the air, as if the space itself was holding its breath. Jonas, usually pragmatic, admitted he felt it too—a presence, female, watchful, and not entirely malevolent but certainly not benign. I began to notice patterns: the hallway light would flicker even after we replaced the bulb, and the radiator in the living room would knock in a rhythm that seemed almost like a playful tap-tap-tap. But the worst was the doorway. Every time I sat on the couch, cooked at the stove, or simply walked from the bedroom to the bathroom, I felt eyes on me. Not just any eyes—I felt the distinct sensation of someone standing in that open frame, hands gripping the top of the doorjamb, swinging slightly as if they were a child at play, watching me with a sly, knowing grin.

I tried to ignore it, but the feeling became unbearable. I started sleeping with the hall light on, a weak bulb that cast long, distorted shadows. At night, if I needed to pee, I would shake Jonas awake, and he would groggily accompany me, his hand warm and reassuring. But even with him, the presence was there, lurking in that doorway, as if waiting for the moment I would be alone. Jonas would sometimes stare into the darkness of the living room and say, ‘She’s watching today.’ I hated that ‘she.’ I never wanted to know her name.

Months passed, and we learned to live with her. We joked about her being a ghost, a lonely spirit from the building’s past. But the jokes never reached our eyes. One night, a storm knocked out the power, plunging the apartment into absolute blackness. I was in the bathroom, and the door was slightly ajar. As I fumbled for the handle, I heard it—a soft, rhythmic creak, like someone gently pushing the door wider. I froze, whispering, ‘Jonas?’ No answer. The creaking stopped, and then I felt a cold draft sweep past me, moving toward the living room. I stumbled out, heart pounding, and found Jonas standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty doorway. In the darkness, I saw his face illuminated by a faint glow from the window—the moon breaking through clouds. He whispered, ‘She’s here,.’ And then, as if to answer, the living room light flickered on, casting a stark, unforgiving light. In the doorway, there was a shape—a silhouette of a woman, hands on the frame, swaying gently, her head tilted. She seemed to be smiling. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

We moved out two weeks later. The landlord, an old man with rheumy eyes, asked why we were leaving so soon. I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I made up a story about a job transfer. He nodded, a strange glint in his eye, and said, ‘She was always a playful one, that girl. Lived here in the 40s, died of fever. Never left, I reckon.’ We packed in silence, and as we closed the door for the last time, I looked back at the empty doorway. For a second, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of movement—a hand sliding off the frame. But I shook my head and ran. To this day, whenever I stand in a doorway, I feel that weight, that gaze, as if she’s still there, waiting for me to turn around.