The Latch That Clicked Twice

Two autumns ago, when my daughter was still a warm weight in my belly, we drove north to a finger of land that juts into Lake Superior. My husband had fond memories of a lodge called the Pinecrest, perched on a cliff above the gray water. The moment we pulled into the gravel lot, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. The building was a long, two-story structure with peeling white paint and a sign that flickered as if it were gaslit. Inside, our room smelled of mothballs and old wood. The furniture was heavy and dark, the kind that belonged in a grandmother’s attic. The television was a bulky 12-inch set with rabbit ears and a dial that clicked through channels, but there was no antenna feed, only static. We laughed, calling it a time capsule, and settled in.

That first night, as we lay in the creaking bed, the ceiling tiles above us began to rattle, not as a single tremor but in a rippling wave, as if something were crawling across them. My husband joked about the place being haunted, and we blamed the furnace. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was pressing in on us. The next morning, I woke early as I always do, while the sky was still a bruise. I lay still, watching the dust motes dance in the pale light. At 5:30, I heard it: a distinct click, like a latch turning. I froze, my heart hammering. The door to our room was ajar, and I saw a thin crack of darkness. I blinked, and the door was closed. I told myself it was the wind, but the windows were sealed shut.

The second night, I woke again at the same hour. This time, I heard the click, and then the sound of footsteps, soft and padding, crossing the carpet. I held my breath, my hand on my husband’s arm, but he slept on. The footsteps stopped at the foot of the bed. I could feel a presence, a coldness, like a draft from a grave. I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ The footsteps retreated, and I heard the click again, as if the latch had reset. I didn’t sleep after that.

On our last morning, I decided to explore. While my husband slept, I followed the hallway to the end, where a narrow stair led to a basement door. It was locked, but the lock was old and yielded to a gentle push. Inside, I found a room cluttered with old furniture, dusty suitcases, and a child’s rocking horse. Against the far wall, there was a small door, no taller than a child. It was painted white, with a brass latch. I felt drawn to it, and as I knelt, I heard a faint, muffled sound, like a baby’s cry. I reached for the latch, but before I could touch it, a hand gripped my shoulder. I screamed and spun around. It was my husband, pale and wide-eyed. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘I heard something,’ I said. He shook his head. ‘I heard it too,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’ We left that morning, and I never told him what I saw in the basement: a small, white door with a latch that clicked twice, once as I approached, and once as I turned away. And I never told him that I saw a tiny handprint on the dust, pressed against the wood, as if something had been trying to get out. My daughter was born three months later. Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, I hear that click in our own home, and I wonder if we brought something back with us. But I keep that door closed, and I never look in the mirror too long, afraid of what might be standing behind me.