The Open Door at Night

The year my grandfather died was the hardest of my life. I was away on a school trip when it happened, and I always regretted not being there at the end. My cousins told me they sometimes felt a presence or heard a faint sound, but I never experienced anything myself.

Then, last autumn, my grandmother went to visit her sister, leaving me alone in the old house for a week. I was nervous, so I spent my nights at a friend’s apartment. Every evening before I left, I would carefully shut the door to the study, a room I never used.

Each morning when I returned to get fresh clothes, I found the study door standing wide open. I was certain I had closed it. On the third day, I made a point of latching it firmly behind me.

The next morning, the latch was undone and the door was open again. A deep chill settled over me, and I began to question my own memory.