The Locked Door

I’m fifteen, and I live in a renovated farmhouse in the dusty outskirts of Broken Hill, where the red earth cracks under the sun and the wind carries a constant, mournful hum. My grandmother, Nonna, passed away three weeks ago, and my grandfather, Pop, lives just over the fence, in a house that smells of menthol and old photographs. Everyone says grief does strange things to a place, but I never believed it until the week the house started to feel… occupied.

It began on a Tuesday, about four days after the funeral. Mum and Dad had gone to a painting class in town, leaving me alone with the dogs, Rusty and Blue, who were curled on the veranda, oblivious. I was in the lounge, half-watching a rerun of some cooking show, when I heard a soft patter, like bare feet on the wooden floor. I looked up, and down the hallway that ran from the front door to the back, I saw two shapes—wavery, grey, about a foot shorter than me—darting from the bedroom to the bathroom, then back again. They moved with a frantic, playful energy, like children playing tag. I swallowed, told myself it was the heat, the dust motes, my eyes playing tricks. I walked to the hallway, but it was empty, the air still. I returned to my seat, but my heart was pounding.

Later that afternoon, it happened again. This time I was braver, or more curious. I crept down the hallway, past the bathroom, past Nonna’s old sewing room, and just as I reached my bedroom door, the framed photograph of my late dog, Jasper, on the bedside table suddenly tipped over and clattered to the floor. The glass didn’t break, but the sound was sharp. I picked it up, saw Jasper’s happy face, and felt a cold knot in my chest. The shadows were gone, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

Over the next two days, the presence grew more persistent. At night, I’d hear the faint click of high heels on the linoleum in the kitchen, though no one wore heels in our house. Then, a soft, sniffling sound, like someone crying—but when I’d go to investigate, the sounds would cease, and the air would be heavy with silence. The dogs started avoiding the hallway, whimpering if I tried to coax them past the bathroom. I tried to rationalize it: the old house settling, the wind in the pipes, grief making me jumpy. But I would still lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps.

Two days ago, the weather turned, a cool change sweeping in. I was in the lounge, watching a movie on my laptop, when the back door slammed. I jumped, thinking it was the wind, but it was locked. I got up and tried the knob—locked solid. I’d left it unlocked earlier; I was sure of it. No one else was home, and the only key was on the kitchen hook. I went out the front door to check on the dogs, thinking maybe they’d knocked something over. Rusty and Blue were fine, but as I rounded the corner to the back yard, I saw the back door was closed, and the windows were all shut tight. I tried the door again—still locked. My stomach dropped. I hurried next door to Pop’s place. He was in his armchair, a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Pop,’ I panted, ‘the back door is locked, and I can’t get in.’ He frowned, eased himself up, and walked over with his keys. ‘Are you sure, love?’ he said, his voice raspy. ‘Lately, this place has a mind of its own.’ He opened the door, and it swung open easily, no resistance. Inside, everything was normal—no shadows, no sounds. But as we stepped in, I swear I saw a flicker of movement in the hallway, and then it was gone.

Yesterday, Mum and Dad went to visit a friend in town, leaving me alone again. I decided to confront whatever it was. I stood in the hallway, in the middle of the day, with all the lights on. ‘I know you’re here,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘What do you want?’ Nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. I walked into the lounge, and there, on the mantelpiece, I saw Nonna’s favourite brooch—a silver dragonfly she’d worn every Sunday. It wasn’t there before, I was certain. It had been in her jewellery box in the sewing room. I went to pick it up, and as my fingers touched the metal, the hallway light flickered, and I heard a child’s laughter. I spun around, but again, nothing.

I tried to call Mum, but my phone was dead. I went outside to calm down, and when I came back, the back door was locked again. This time, I knew it wasn’t the wind. I ran to Pop’s, and he came over, shaking his head. He opened the door and looked at me with a strange intensity. ‘It’s your grandmother,’ he said softly. ‘She’s trying to tell you something. She never could bear it when you locked yourself out.’ I stared at him, unaware that he knew about my episodes. ‘She used to click her heels when she was annoyed,’ he went on, ‘and she’d snuffle when she was sad. And she loved children—we lost a baby before your father was born. Maybe she’s lonely.’

That night, I left every door in the house open, and I sat in the hallway, waiting. At midnight, the front door creaked, and the two shadowy figures appeared again—but this time, they were clearer, almost solid. They looked like a small girl and a boy, holding hands. They ran past me, not even glancing my way, and disappeared into the sewing room. A moment later, I heard the faint sound of a lullaby, humming. I walked to the sewing room, pushed the door open, and there, on the desk, was a yellowed envelope with my name on it. My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside was a letter, in Nonna’s elegant script: ‘To my dearest Luca, if you’re reading this, I’ve been gone too long, but I’m still watching over you. Please, whatever you do, don’t lock the back door. It frightens the children. They’re here to play, and they miss you as much as I do. I love you always, Nonna.’

I folded the letter and placed it back, my heart aching. The shadows grew fainter, and a warm breeze swept through the room, smelling of lavender and her cooking. I believe it now. Nonna is still here, with those two little ones, and maybe I was never meant to banish them. Maybe they were just lonely. I never lock the back door anymore. And when I hear their footsteps, I smile, because I know they’re not afraid anymore.