The Painted Door

My boyfriend, Marcus, and I moved into a converted warehouse loft in the industrial part of town. The building had been renovated in the early 2000s, but the bones were old—exposed brick, iron beams, and a freight elevator that groaned like a dying animal. The walls were freshly painted a sterile white, but one door, the door to what we called the storage closet, was a deep, glossy red. It looked out of place, like a wound in the clean canvas.

I brought my dog, Buster, a skittish terrier mix, and my parrot, Kiwi, who had a vocabulary of about twenty words, mostly profanities. Marcus rolled his eyes when I insisted they come, but he warmed up to them quickly enough. The loft felt empty, too vast, and the sounds of the city outside were muted. The first week, I noticed Buster would sometimes stop and stare at that red door, his tail low, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Kiwi would ruffle his feathers and squawk ‘No’ whenever we walked past it.

I didn’t think much of it. Old buildings have drafts, strange acoustics. But then I started to see her. A little girl, maybe eight, with jet-black hair in two braids, wearing a faded yellow sundress. She would stand in the doorway to the storage closet, her back to me, perfectly still. By the time I blinked, she was gone. I mentioned it to Marcus, who laughed it off, saying it was probably just a trick of the light or my imagination. But I knew what I saw. And she was always there, in the periphery—a flash of yellow disappearing around a corner, a small silhouette in the doorway.

One evening, I decided to investigate. The red door was locked, which was odd, because we never locked it. I found the key on a high shelf in the kitchen, dusty and cold. When I turned the key, the lock clicked with a sound that seemed too loud. The door swung open slowly, revealing a small, windowless room. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with a pattern of tiny blue flowers. There was a single child’s chair, a wooden rocking horse with chipped paint, and a trunk at the foot of a bed that wasn’t there. The air was thick with dust and something else—a sweet, cloying scent, like rotting flowers.

I stood in the doorway, my heart pounding. The room was cold, and I could see my breath. On the far wall, there was a painting—a portrait of the same little girl, but in this painting, she was facing me. Her eyes were wide, almost black, and her mouth was open in a silent scream. I backed away, slammed the door, and locked it again. I didn’t tell Marcus. I was afraid he’d think I was crazy.

But the sightings became more frequent. She would appear in my peripheral vision, standing at the end of the hallway, or in the kitchen, watching me with those dark eyes. Buster refused to go near the red door, and Kiwi would screech ‘No! No! No!’ until I covered his cage. Marcus didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, but I could see the strain on his face when I jumped at every creak.

One night, I woke to the sound of a child singing. It was a lullaby, soft and off-key, coming from the direction of the storage closet. I nudged Marcus, but he was dead asleep. I got up, my bare feet cold on the concrete floor, and walked to the red door. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light spilling from the room. I pushed it open. The room was different—clean, bright, with a cheerful yellow wallpaper and a small bed with a pink quilt. The little girl sat on the bed, her back to me, humming. She turned her head, just slightly, and I saw her profile. Her face was smooth, but her eyes were hollow pits, and her mouth was sewn shut with crude black stitches.

She raised a hand and pointed to the trunk at the foot of the bed. The trunk was open. Inside, there was a child’s dress, covered in dark stains, and a pair of small, scuffed shoes. And a photograph. I reached down to pick it up. It was a picture of a woman holding a baby, both smiling. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: ‘For my little one, always.’

I dropped the photo and ran. I stumbled back to our bedroom, shaking. Marcus was still asleep. I didn’t wake him. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city and the faint sound of that lullaby echoing through the walls. In the morning, I saw that the red door was ajar again. This time, the room was empty, just bare walls and a concrete floor. And on the floor, in dust, was the word ‘ALWAYS’.

We moved out a month later. Marcus never believed me, but he agreed to leave because I was becoming a wreck. I left behind the furniture, the memories, everything. But as we loaded the last box into the truck, I saw a flash of yellow in the window of our old loft, on the second floor. The little girl was standing there, her face pressed against the glass, and she was smiling. Her mouth was open, and inside, I saw not teeth, but a dark void. And I heard her voice, a whisper that cut through the traffic noise: ‘You can’t leave me, Mommy.’

We drove away, but I knew she was right. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed. The painted door was in my mind now, and behind it, a little girl with hollow eyes was waiting for me to come back. And I knew, one day, I would.