The Looming Door

The flat we moved into was tucked behind my grandfather’s old printing house, a relic from the 1920s that had seen better days. We were in the back annex, a cramped space that once served as a break room for the workers who ran the massive presses. Now it was home for me and my best friend, Maya. The walls were thick, the windows small, and the whole place had a perpetual smell of ink and old paper, a scent that clung to every surface no matter how much we cleaned.

The layout was odd. The flat itself was small: two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom that was too cramped to even turn around in. To get to the actual shower, you had to step outside onto a narrow landing and through a separate door. That bathroom was a strange addition, with a high ceiling and a heavy door that led further into the building, always locked from our side. My bedroom had a similar door, also locked, with a metal bolt that I dutifully slid shut every night. We joked about them, calling them ‘the mysterious doors,’ but we never used them.

A few weeks in, I started noticing the smell of cut grass, even though the building was surrounded by concrete and the nearest lawn was blocks away. It was most potent near my bedroom door, faint but unmistakable. Maya said I was imagining it, but one night, as I was reading in bed, I heard a soft, rhythmic sound through the door, like someone breathing on the other side. I pressed my ear against the cold wood. Nothing. But the smell was stronger, almost cloying.

A week later, I found the bolt on my door slightly ajar, though I knew I had locked it. I pushed it back, my heart hammering. I told Maya, and we decided to try to open the door, just to see what was in that part of the building. We removed the heavy bolt and turned the handle. It was stuck, but with a firm shove, it creaked open.

Beyond was a long, dark corridor that ran parallel to the building’s exterior, lit only by a single, naked bulb hanging from a wire. The floor was dusty, and there were old, faded posters on the walls advertising long-forgotten products. At the end of the corridor, there was another door, slightly ajar. Maya and I walked in, our footsteps echoing. As we approached, we saw it was a small room, filled with old, rusted machinery. But in the center, there was something odd: a mannequin wearing a tattered brown suit, its face a blank, featureless void.

The smell of cut grass was overwhelming in there. And then I saw something that made my blood run cold. The mannequin’s outstretched arm, and on its palm, there was a single, fresh green leaf. Maya let out a nervous laugh. ‘Someone’s messing with us,’ she said. But when we turned to leave, the door at the end of the corridor was closed. It had been open moments ago.

We ran back to our flat, slamming the door behind us and re-bolting it. We didn’t talk about it that night. But the next morning, I found a trail of small, green leaves leading from my bedroom door to the bathroom door outside. They were dry and crumbled to dust at my touch. And the door to the corridor, which we had locked, was slightly open.

That was when things started to change. The leaves appeared everywhere, even in places we never went. The smell of cut grass became constant, a cloying sweetness under the ink. Maya started having nightmares, waking up screaming about a figure in a brown suit standing over her bed. I didn’t sleep well either. Every night, I heard the breathing, now clear and loud, right outside my bedroom door.

One evening, I came home to find Maya pale and trembling. She claimed she had seen the mannequin standing in the hallway, staring at her, but when she blinked, it was gone. I didn’t question her. I knew she was telling the truth.

That night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw open my bedroom door, intending to confront whatever was there. The corridor was empty, save for a single leaf on the floor. But then I heard a faint hum, a low mechanical sound. It was coming from the room with the mannequin. I walked forward, my legs numb, and peered inside.

The mannequin was gone. In its place was a large, old printing press, covered in a tarp. The hum grew louder, and I saw that the press was slowly, rhythmically moving up and down, as if it were printing something. I approached and lifted the tarp. On the plate, there was a sheet of paper with a single word imprinted in dripping black ink: ‘LEAVES.’

I backed away, a cold dread seizing me. I turned to run, but the corridor was now filled with leaves, swirling around me, rising from the ground like a tornado. I choked on them, the soil in my mouth, the smell of cut grass suffocating. And then, from the midst of the storm, a figure emerged. The mannequin, now with a face, my face, staring at me with hollow eyes. It spoke, a voice like rustling leaves: ‘Your grandfather never left.’

I woke up on the floor of my bedroom, the sun streaming through the grimy window. Maya was shaking me, asking if I was okay. I told her what I saw. We decided we had to leave, that very day. But as we were packing, the doors to the flat slammed shut on their own. The locked doors burst open, revealing the dark corridor. The smell of cut grass filled every room, and from the depths, we heard the sound of a thousand leaves rustling, and a low, rasping whisper: ‘You can’t leave. The leaves hold you.’

We are still here. The building is our prison. We sleep in shifts, always watching the doors, always hearing the breathing. The leaves have begun to grow from the cracks in the walls, covering every surface. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see the mannequin’s face staring back, wearing my own smile.