The Hollow Door

The cabin sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by a forest that seemed to hold its breath after sunset. I had invited three friends for a weekend getaway, hoping to break the monotony of our city lives. My name is Marcus, and I’ve always been the one who feels the otherness in the world—the prickle on the back of your neck in an empty room, the sense of being watched in a house that should be silent. My friends, however, were pragmatists. Lena, a nursing student, swore by science; Jake, an engineering major, mocked anything he couldn’t measure; and Sarah, the quietest of the group, never shared her beliefs, but her eyes often lingered on corners where shadows pooled.

That night, after my mother had retired to her room—she was visiting and had taken the only proper bedroom—we decided to make the most of the rustic place. I’d brought a bottle of whiskey from the city, and although I’m not a heavy drinker, I poured a few fingers for Jake and Sarah. Lena and I stayed sober, mostly because I wanted to remain sharp, and Lena had an early shift at the local clinic the next morning. The fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the wind outside hummed a low, mournful tune through the pines.

It was Jake who suggested the séance, half-joking, half-daring. ‘Let’s see if you can actually summon something, Marcus,’ he said, his grin crooked from the whiskey. Lena rolled her eyes, but Sarah’s face went pale. I should have listened to that pale. But I didn’t. I found a piece of cardboard, a marker, and a small glass from the kitchen. I drew the letters in a circle, added ‘YES’ and ‘NO’ at opposite ends, and placed the glass upside down in the center. We sat around the coffee table, our hands resting lightly on the glass, as if it were all a game.

We started with the usual questions. ‘Is there anyone with us tonight?’ The glass remained still. ‘What is your name?’ Nothing. Jake snickered; Lena sighed. But Sarah kept her eyes fixed on the glass, her fingers trembling slightly. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the sliding glass door to the right of the kitchen table. That door led to a small deck that overlooked the dark woods. I had left the curtains open, and the reflection of our candlelit room stared back at us like a ghost.

Then, the glass moved. It slid sharply to ‘YES’ before any of us could react. The four of us gasped. Jake laughed nervously, ‘Nice trick, Marcus.’ But I wasn’t moving it. And neither was anyone else—I could see all our fingers, light as feathers, none of them applying pressure. The glass began to trace a slow circle, then spell out letters. It chose ‘H,’ then ‘E,’ then ‘L.’ We leaned in closer, the firelight casting elongated shadows on the walls. The glass spelled ‘HELLO.’ Then it stopped.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, my voice steady despite my heart racing. The glass darted to ‘M’ and then ‘A’ and then ‘R’—it was spelling my name. ‘Marcus,’ it finished. My friends looked at me, their mocking deflated. Lena whispered, ‘This is a trick. One of you is moving it.’ But we all shook our heads. Sarah said, ‘It’s using his name because he asked. Let’s ask something else. ‘What do you want?” The glass slid to ‘Y’ and ‘O’ and ‘U’—’YOU.’ The room went silent, the only sound the wind and the creaking of the cabin’s ancient wooden frame.

I looked up from the board and saw, through the glass door, a figure standing at the edge of the woods. It was tall, darker than the night, and it seemed to be staring directly at me. I blinked, and it was gone. But the glass now spelled ‘BEHIND.’ We all turned to look at the door. Nothing was there. But the glass spelled ‘THE DOOR.’ Again, nothing. Then, ‘LOOK’ and ‘UP.’ We all looked up at the ceiling. There, in the corner where the wall met the ceiling, was a dark stain, shaped vaguely like a human face. It hadn’t been there before—I was sure of that.

Sarah screamed, and we all scrambled away from the table, the glass clattering to the floor. Jake was pale, his mocking gone. Lena was trying to rationalize, ‘It’s just mold. Old cabin.’ But the stain seemed to pulse slightly, as if breathing. That’s when the glass slid off the table and shattered, pieces scattering across the floor. The fire flickered and died, plunging us into darkness. The only light was a dim glow from the moon outside, filtering through the glass door, and for a moment, I saw the figure again, pressing its face against the glass. It had no features, just a smooth, dark oval, but I felt its gaze like a weight on my soul.

We fled to the one room that had a lock—the bathroom. We huddled inside, listening to the sounds of the cabin settling, but they sounded too deliberate. Footsteps in the kitchen. A low, breathy whisper that seemed to come from inside the walls. ‘Let me in,’ it said, over and over, in a voice that was almost familiar. It was my mother’s voice. But my mother was in her room, and she was a heavy sleeper. I called out to her, but there was no response.

After what felt like hours, the sounds ceased. The silence was worse. I cautiously opened the door, and we crept out. The living room was as we’d left it, minus the broken glass. The fire was crackling again, as if it had never died. And at the table sat a figure: it was my mother, but her face was wrong. Her eyes were black voids, and she smiled with too many teeth. ‘Did you enjoy your game?’ she asked in a voice that was not hers. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Marcus.’

We ran then, all of us, into the night, not stopping until we reached the main road. We drove to the nearest gas station and called the police from a payphone. When the officers arrived at the cabin, they found no one. The cabin was empty, not even my mother’s belongings. But on the coffee table, neatly arranged, was the paper ouji board, and in its center, a single word written in a spidery hand: ‘YOU.’

We never spoke of that night again. My friends moved away, and I haven’t seen them since. My mother was found days later, wandering in the woods, disoriented, with no memory of that evening. But sometimes, when I look in a mirror, I see a shadow in the corner of my eye, a shape that lingers a moment too long. And I hear a whisper from my own mouth, in a voice that is not mine: ‘Hello, Marcus.’ I know it’s not over. It’s just waiting for me to come back to that cabin, to the hollow door between this world and the next, where the glass read ‘YOU’ and the door was never closed.

I’ve written this account as a warning. If you ever hear a voice calling your name from an empty room, or see a shadow that seems too solid, do not answer. Do not look too long. And above all, never, ever, ask if anyone is there—because sometimes, something is always listening, and it will find the hollow door in your soul and enter.