The Locked Door

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in late September, and the small apartment on the third floor of an old brick building felt like an oven. I had drawn the curtains in the bedroom, but the sun still bled through the thin fabric, painting the room in a hazy orange glow. I lay down on the futon, which was pushed against the wall opposite the only window, and let the heat pull me into a heavy sleep.

The room had one door, which led to the hallway, and it was wide open to let the stale air circulate. I remember thinking, just before drifting off, that the landlord had promised to fix the AC, but it was still broken. The faint hum of the city outside was the last thing I heard.

In my dream, I was running through a long, dark tunnel. The walls were slick with moisture, and the air smelled of wet earth. Behind me, I heard the skittering of claws and a low, guttural growl. I looked back and saw a massive black dog, its eyes glowing like hot coals. It was fast, closing the distance with every stride. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Just as its jaws were about to catch my heel, I woke up.

But something was wrong. The room was still bathed in that sickly orange light, but everything seemed magnified, as if I were looking through a fishbowl. The heat pressed down on me, and I felt a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I tried to sit up, to move my arms, but my body refused to obey. I could only lie there, staring at the ceiling, which seemed to be pulsing gently, like a slow heartbeat.

I strained to turn my head, and for a moment, I thought I saw a figure standing in the corner of the room, near the door. It was tall and thin, almost skeletal, and it seemed to be wearing a long coat that brushed the floor. It didn’t move, just stood there, observing me. I blinked, and it was gone. But the feeling of being watched only intensified.

Then I heard a sound from the hallway: a soft, rhythmic scratching, as if someone were dragging their nails along the wall. It grew louder, closer, until it stopped right outside the bedroom door. The door was still open, but the hallway was dark, a void that seemed to swallow the light. I felt a cold draft wash over me, despite the heat, and the door began to swing slowly, as if pushed by an unseen hand.

It creaked shut with a soft click, and the room became darker. The lock, which I had never used, turned on its own, a distinct, final click that echoed in the silence. The scratching resumed, but now it was on the other side of the door, trying to get in. I wanted to call out, to scream for help, but my throat was paralyzed. The only sound I could make was a faint, pathetic whimper.

The scratching stopped, and a new sound began: a low, muffled laughter, just on the other side of the door. It was a woman’s laugh, soft and mocking. It went on for what felt like an eternity, and then it faded into the hum of the city, which had returned, but distant, as if I were underwater.

I managed to close my eyes, telling myself it was just sleep paralysis, a hallucination. When I opened them again, the door was open, the hallway was bright with the afternoon sun, and I could move. I sat up, gasping for breath, my shirt soaked with sweat. I looked at the door, expecting to see the lock engaged, but it wasn’t. The door was unlocked, as it always had been.

I tried to dismiss it as a dream, a trick of the heat, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been there, watching me. And that night, as I lay in bed, I heard the same scratching sound from the hallway. I kept my eyes shut, too terrified to look. The scratching moved to the door, and I heard the lock click. It didn’t open, but I knew it would. I knew it was just a matter of time before that laughter came through, and I would be forced to see what was on the other side.