The Frosted Door

The ordeal at my aunt’s house had ended, but my own home had become a place of dread. For four nights, I had slept on her lumpy sofa, the drone of her snoring a strange comfort. Returning each morning to my silent apartment, I would tiptoe through the hallway, half expecting the unseen presence to materialize in the grey dawn light. But it was day that brought the next terror.

It was a Saturday, and the sun streamed through the kitchen window, promising warmth and normalcy. I had decided to take a long, hot bath to wash away the fatigue. My ritual, as always, was to shut every door in the apartment before undressing. The bathroom had a large window facing the overgrown courtyard, and a draft always made me shiver if the door was open. I pulled the door of the spare bedroom closed, feeling the familiar click of the latch. I turned and walked to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

When I returned, the door to the spare room was standing ajar, a shadowy gap inviting me to look inside. I frowned. ‘It must not have caught,’ I muttered, pulling it again. The handle turned easily, but the door itself refused to budge. I tugged harder, expecting the wood to give, but it was as if it were set in concrete. I dropped to my knees, running my fingers along the bottom edge, searching for a jammed rug or a twisted screw. Nothing. The door was perfectly aligned, the screws in the hinges were tight, the stopper on the floor was clean. It was as if some invisible force was holding it from the other side.

I stood, breathing faster, and leaned my forehead against the cool wood. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower. But beneath it all, I sensed something else—a faint, rhythmic scratching, like fingernails dragging along the paint. I stepped back, my heart hammering. ‘Hello?’ I called out, my voice thin. The scratching stopped. Then, a soft, childlike laugh, unmistakably coming from inside the room, made my blood run cold.

I didn’t wait. I bolted for the front door, not stopping until I was on the landing, shaking. I didn’t return for hours. When I finally got the courage to go back, the door was shut tight. I never opened it again. I packed a bag and moved back to my aunt’s, but the image of that door haunted me. Days later, I admitted to myself that I had to know. I hired a locksmith to replace the doorknob, and when he removed the old one, he found a single, frozen fingerprint on the interior latch—a print that was not mine. And the room, which had always been empty, now held a thin layer of frost on the window, even in the July heat.