The Locked Door and the Other Woman

January 21, 2026

by Santiago

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (512 words)

"I was seven when my parents dragged me to the sprawling, run-down farmhouse of their old friends, the Millers. The house itself was a maze of creaking hallways and dusty rooms, but the thing that made my skin crawl was the palpable tension that thickened the air. Mr. Miller, a lean man with darting eyes, […]"

I was seven when my parents dragged me to the sprawling, run-down farmhouse of their old friends, the Millers. The house itself was a maze of creaking hallways and dusty rooms, but the thing that made my skin crawl was the palpable tension that thickened the air. Mr. Miller, a lean man with darting eyes, practiced a folk religion that my abuela had warned me about in hushed tones. The smell of burnt herbs and something metallic lingered in every corner, and I always felt like I was being watched by unseen eyes.

That afternoon, Mr. Miller’s mother, a frail woman with a stern face, had just arrived from Cuba. She was all sharp angles and whispered prayers. I was desperately in need of the bathroom, my bladder aching. The only one was down a long, dark hallway, its door closed. The mother had disappeared into it a few minutes prior. I hovered near the couch, hopping from foot to foot, my eyes fixed on that door. Finally, it creaked open, and she stepped out, her wet hair slicked back. She closed the door firmly behind her.

I scurried forward, relief washing over me. But when I twisted the knob, it was locked. Panic spiked through me. I knocked softly. ‘Just a second,’ came her voice from inside, muffled but clear. My heart stuttered. That was impossible. I had just seen her walk out. A cold dread slithered up my spine as I turned away, and that’s when I saw it: a shadow, darker than the gloom of the corridor, sliding through the doorway of the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, too smooth, too deliberate. And its silhouette was unmistakably her.

I froze. My mind screamed to look away, but my eyes were glued. The shadow paused in the bedroom doorway, as if it knew I was watching. Then, slowly, it turned its head, and even though I couldn’t see a face, I felt the weight of a gaze from a place that had no eyes. I bolted back to the living room, my legs like jelly. My mother was chatting with Mrs. Miller, and I buried my face in her side, trembling. ‘What’s wrong, mijo?’ she asked. I tried to explain, but my words came out in gibberish. I pointed toward the hallway, but when I looked, there was nothing there.

That night, I was supposed to sleep over, to share a room with the Miller’s son, Tommy. But I refused, crying and clinging to my mother until she relented and took me home. The image stayed with me, a splinter in my mind. Years later, I asked my mother about that visit. She dismissed it, saying I had a wild imagination. But I never forgot the way that shadow moved, the way it mimicked the mother’s walk, the way it had looked back at me from the darkness of that room. I still can’t explain it, and I’ve learned that some doors, once closed, should never be opened again.

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