The Hollow Door

I was eleven when we moved to the old farmhouse outside of Cuyahoga Falls, and I hated every splintered step of it. The place had been in my stepfather’s family for generations, and it smelled like mothballs and old regret. My room was at the end of a long hallway, with a door that was heavy and warped, no lock on the handle—just a brass knob that turned too easily.

At first, it was small things. I’d be building with my LEGOs, and the door would creak and swing shut with a solid thud. My mom would come and push it open, her face pinched with annoyance. ‘It’s the draft,’ she’d say, but there were no windows in that hallway, and the door was too heavy for a draft to move. I started wedging a chair under the knob, but it didn’t help. I’d hear the scrape of wood on wood, and then the chair would slide, and the door would slam again.

Then came the shower. The bathroom was off the kitchen, small and cramped, with a clawfoot tub and a plastic curtain that billowed even with no air moving. The first time, I was under the hot spray, my eyes closed, and I heard the door creak open. I opened my eyes, expecting my mom, but no one was there. The door hung open, revealing the dark hallway beyond. I called out, and my voice echoed oddly. The door then closed on its own, slowly, like someone was pushing it from the other side.

I refused to shower alone after that. My mom would sit on the toilet lid, reading a magazine, while I hurriedly washed. She started noticing things too. She’d hear footsteps in the hallway when she was in the kitchen, and the sound of someone humming an old tune she couldn’t quite place. One night, she woke up to see the shadow of a tall figure standing in the doorway of her bedroom, but when she turned on the lamp, it was gone. She convinced herself it was a dream, but I saw the way she looked at that empty doorway afterward.

The worst was the day I came home from school and found the door to my room wide open, though I knew I’d closed it. Inside, my toys were arranged in a circle on the floor, facing the closet. My closet door was ajar, and inside, I saw what looked like a pair of eyes in the darkness—not animal, not human, but something in between. I slammed the door shut and ran to my mom, but when she checked, the closet was empty, and my toys were just scattered as they always were.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was all in my head. Then I heard it: a faint tapping on the hollow door of my closet, three slow knocks. I pulled the covers over my head, my heart pounding. The knocks came again, harder this time, and then the closet door creaked open on its own. I felt a cold draft snake across the room, and the air grew thick, like something was breathing right next to my face.

I whispered a prayer, and then I heard a voice—not out loud, but inside my head—a low, rasping sound: ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ I snapped the covers down and saw that the closet door was shut, but on my dresser, a small toy soldier had been turned to face me, its painted eyes fixed on mine. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told my mom I wanted to leave, but she just sighed and said, ‘We’re not leaving, honey. It’s just the old house settling.’ But I saw her hand tremble as she held her coffee. She’d started sleeping with the lights on.

A week later, I came home to find the front door standing wide open. No one was inside, but all the interior doors were closed, and from the hallway, I heard a low, rhythmic sound—like something was dragging across the floor upstairs. I crept up, and in my parents’ bedroom, I found the closet door open, and inside, all my mother’s dresses had been slashed to ribbons, as if by some sharp claw. On the mirror, written in what looked like old red lipstick, was a single word: ‘LEAVE.’

My mom finally agreed to pack up, but as we loaded the car, I saw it—the shadow of a man in the upstairs window, watching us. I blinked, and it was gone. But I knew that house would never let us go.

We moved back to Sandusky, but even now, years later, I can’t sleep with my closet door open. And sometimes, when I’m in the shower, I hear the door creak open, and I feel icy fingers trailing down my spine. I never look. I never want to see what’s standing there, waiting in the hollow of the door.