The Locked Door of Flat 3B

The summer of 1988, my father and I moved into a cramped flat in the aging Marlowe Estate, a maze of concrete walkways and rusted railings. The first time we viewed the place, I darted ahead, exploring every corner while Dad spoke to the building’s super, Mr. Harlow. My grandfather had come along to help, and he sat on a dusty radiator, watching me with tired eyes.

I pushed open the bathroom door, a small, windowless box with peeling beige tiles. As I stepped in, the door slammed shut behind me. I thought nothing of it until the light went out with a definitive click. I fumbled for the switch, but it wouldn’t move. I tried the doorknob, but it was frozen. I jiggled it, panicking, and called out. My grandfather’s voice came from the other side, calm, ‘Turn the latch, boy.’ I did, but it wouldn’t turn. I heard him try from his side, and it opened easily. I ran out, shaking, but we all dismissed it as a kid’s imagination.

We moved in a week later. I was nine, and the apartment was our new life after Mom left. The first few nights were fine, except for a few oddities. The old grandfather clock in the hallway would chime thirteen times at midnight, always when I was alone. I’d wake with the feeling of being watched, but no one was there. Dad worked nights at a factory, and my grandfather would watch me, but he’d fall asleep early on the couch, his snoring a comfort.

Then came the incident with the kitchen drawer. I was getting a glass of water, and the drawer under the counter slid open by itself, revealing a single, old-fashioned key on a rusted ring. I’d never seen it before. I picked it up, and the second I touched it, the kitchen light flickered. That night, I dreamed of the bathroom door, but in the dream, it was ajar, and something was breathing behind it.

The key became my obsession. I tried it on every lock in the flat, but nothing fit. My grandfather noticed me with it one day. His face went pale. He said, ‘Where did you find that?’ I told him, and he took it from me, muttering, ‘Some things are better left buried.’ He hid it in a coat pocket and never spoke of it again.

Two weeks later, my grandfather passed away in his sleep. Dad was devastated, and the funeral was a blur. The morning after, I found the key on my pillow. I knew I had to use it.

I retraced my steps from the first day, searching every corner. Finally, I noticed a small, keyhole-sized indentation in the bathroom wall, barely visible behind the towel rack. I pulled the rack off, revealing a metal plate. My hands trembled as I inserted the key. It turned with a groan, and a hidden panel swung inward, revealing a narrow, pitch-black staircase descending.

I called for Dad, but he was asleep after his shift. I took a flashlight from the kitchen and stepped inside. The air was cold and stale, smelling of damp earth and something metallic. The stairs spiraled down into darkness. At the bottom, a door with a brass knob, similar to the bathroom door, waited.

The knob wouldn’t turn. I pushed, but it was locked. I remembered the bathroom incident, and I whispered, ‘Please, open.’ Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing a room lit by a single, swaying bulb. In the center stood an old gramophone, its horn pointed at me. On the table beside it was a stack of papers, yellowed and brittle.

I picked up the top page. It was a letter, written in my grandfather’s handwriting. It read: ‘To whoever finds this, I am sorry. I thought I could seal it, but it always finds a way. The door is a passage, not for the living. It hungers for children, as it did in 1962. I locked it, but the key was lost. Now it is found. Burn this place. Do not let it out.’

The gramophone crackled, and a voice, high and clear, began to sing a lullaby I’d never heard. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, and the walls began to pulse like a heartbeat. I turned to flee, but the door had shut behind me, locked from the outside. I heard my father’s muffled shouts from above, but they were fading.

The lullaby grew louder, and I felt a cold, small hand take mine. I looked down—there was no one there, but my hand was being pulled toward a dark opening in the floor. I screamed, and the light went out.

They found me later, huddled in the bathroom, the key clutched in my fist. I couldn’t speak for days. My father immediately moved us out, and I never returned. Years later, I learned that the Marlowe Estate was demolished after a series of strange accidents. They found a hidden basement, filled with children’s shoes and a gramophone that still played the lullaby on its own.

I still dream of that door, and I know that somewhere, in another version of the flat, it’s still waiting. And the key, I’ve kept it all these years. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear it turning in the lock of my own front door, and I wonder if I locked it properly.