The Last Door

In the autumn of 2007, I moved into a two-story Victorian house in the outskirts of Salem, Massachusetts. The house was over a century old, but the realtor assured us it had been fully renovated, with new wiring, plumbing, and a fresh coat of paint. I was drawn to its high ceilings and the way the late afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass window in the foyer. It was a place that felt alive, but not in a sinister way. At least, not at first.

My bedroom was on the second floor, at the end of a long hallway. The bathroom was adjacent, with a small reading nook that overlooked the overgrown garden. Every evening, I would come home from my shift at the local bookstore, and without fail, I would see the bathroom light on from the street. Thinking I had left it on accidentally, I’d climb the stairs, but as soon as I reached the top, the light would be off. I chalked it up to faulty wiring, or perhaps my own forgetfulness, but it happened with such regularity that I began to dread my own arrival.

One night, in late October, the light was not just on, but flickering wildly. I stood at the front door, key in hand, watching the erratic bursts of illumination through the frosted window. Summoning my courage, I unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs. As I reached the landing, the flickering stopped, and the hallway fell into pitch blackness. I fumbled for the switch, but nothing. A cold draft wrapped around my ankles, and I heard a soft click, like a door being closed gently. My heart pounding, I entered the bathroom and found it empty, the light switch in the ‘off’ position. The bulb was cold to the touch.

Weeks passed, and the light phenomenon became a nightly ritual. I tried leaving notes for myself, turning off the breaker, even removing the bulb entirely. But the light would still come on, a faint, amber glow emanating from the empty socket. It was as if the room itself was trying to signal me, to draw me in. One night, I decided to stay up and watch from the hallway. I sat in the dark, my back against the wall, eyes fixed on the bathroom door. At precisely 2:37 AM, the door creaked open on its own, and the light flickered to life. A shadow, vaguely humanoid, appeared in the doorway, but it had no feet; it seemed to float just above the threshold. It lingered for a moment, then retreated, and the door swung shut with a click.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I called an electrician, who found no faults. He suggested it might be a draft causing the light switch to move, but there were no drafts. I began to research the house’s history. I discovered that in the 1920s, a woman named Eleanor had lived there. She had been a recluse, known for her peculiar habit of leaving every door in the house open, from the front entrance to the cabinets. She believed that closed doors trapped evil spirits. She died in the upstairs bathroom under mysterious circumstances, and the house remained vacant for years.

After learning this, I started to notice the doors in my own room. I would close them, but by morning, they would all be open. My closet, my bathroom, even the door to the hallway. It was as if Eleanor was continuing her ritual, opening doors to let something in. I tried locking them, but the locks would click open on their own, and I would awaken to find every door ajar. The air would be cold, and I would feel a presence, a pressure, like someone standing just behind me.

One night, I decided to confront it. I sat in the middle of my bed, facing the open bathroom door, and I spoke aloud, ‘Eleanor, if you’re here, please stop. Let me sleep.’ The room grew colder, and the bathroom light flickered on. I heard a faint, whispering sigh, and then the closet door swung open violently. Inside, I saw a shadow, darker than the dark, and it began to move towards me. I wanted to run, but I was paralyzed. The shadow reached out, and I felt a cold hand brush my cheek. It was a fleeting touch, but it left a burning sensation, like frostbite.

In the morning, I found a mark on my face, a small, circular bruise, like a fingertip. I knew I couldn’t stay much longer. I began packing, but the doors would open as soon as I closed them. It was as if the house was refusing to let me leave. I tried to sell the house, but every potential buyer would visit and then back out, complaining of a strange feeling, a sense of being watched.

I started to lose track of time. Days blurred into nights. I stopped opening the mail, stopped answering the phone. The only constant was the bathroom light, burning at all hours, a beacon in the gloom. One evening, I decided to confront it one last time. I walked to the bathroom, and for the first time, I opened the door and stepped inside. The light was blinding, and I saw a figure in the mirror, but it wasn’t me. It was a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by long, black hair. She was pointing behind me. I turned, and saw that the bathroom door was slowly closing, and beyond it, in the hallway, every door in the house was wide open. The last thing I saw was the light flickering one final time, and then everything went black.

I don’t know how long I was out, but when I woke, I was lying on the bathroom floor. The light was off, and all the doors in the house were closed. I haven’t seen the light since, but I never leave a door open in this house. I’ve learned that some doors are meant to stay shut, because the one inside is waiting for someone to leave them open just right, so it can finally escape. I’m just the keeper now, trapped in my own home, making sure the doors never open again.