The Painted Door

In the winter of 2012, my partner Alex and I moved into a converted Victorian flat on the third floor of an old building on Hemlock Street. The neighborhood was quiet, almost too quiet, but we were just grateful to have a place of our own after years of sharing cramped spaces with roommates. The flat had high ceilings, creaky floorboards, and a peculiar feature: a door in the living room, painted a deep, glossy red, that led to a small storage closet. We never thought much of it, except that the paint seemed oddly fresh, as if it had been recently applied.

Our cat, Mori, a tabby we’d adopted from a shelter, took an immediate dislike to that door. She would hiss and flatten her ears whenever we opened it, and she refused to enter the closet even when we coaxed her with treats. We laughed it off, attributing it to her quirky personality, but Mori’s behavior grew more erratic as the weeks passed. She started sleeping in the bathroom, and at night, we’d hear her yowling in the hallway, as if she were warning us of something. Alex suggested we have a friend come over to check for rodents, but our friend found nothing.

Then, in March, the strange occurrences began. I was a light sleeper, and one night I woke to the sound of soft footsteps in the living room. I nudged Alex, but he was deep asleep. I lay still, listening, and the footsteps stopped right outside our bedroom door. My heart pounded, but I convinced myself it was just the old building settling. The next morning, I noticed that the red door was slightly ajar, even though we always kept it closed. I mentioned it to Alex, who shrugged it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had come through that door.

A few nights later, I was alone in the living room, reading, when I heard a faint scratching sound from inside the closet. I put down my book and approached the red door. The scratching grew louder, more frantic, as if something on the other side was trying to get out. I pressed my ear against the cold wood and heard a low, guttural whisper: ‘Let me in.’ I stumbled back, my heart racing. I didn’t open the door, but I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Alex thought I was overreacting, but he agreed to look inside the closet the next day. It was empty, except for a few old boxes and a smell like rotting flowers.

Our relationship began to strain under the weight of my fear. Alex thought I was losing it, and I started to doubt myself. But then, one evening, I found Mori in the living room, staring intently at the red door, her fur bristling. She let out a low growl, and I swear I saw the door knob turn slightly, as if someone on the other side was testing it. I called Alex over, and he saw it too. He finally admitted that something was wrong. That night, we decided to paint over the red door, thinking a fresh coat of primer would seal whatever was behind it. We bought white paint and spent the evening covering the crimson surface. As we finished, the room fell silent, and the scratching we’d grown used to stopped. We felt a sense of relief, but the door now seemed to stare at us, a blank white rectangle in the dim light.

The peace lasted only a week. One night, I woke to the sound of Alex screaming. I flicked on the lights and found him standing in the living room, shaking. He said he’d seen a figure, tall and thin, standing by the door, its eyes glowing red. I looked at the door, and the white paint was peeling in long strips, revealing the red underneath. The smell of rotting flowers filled the room. We rushed back to the bedroom and locked the door, but we could hear the footsteps again, pacing in the living room. In the morning, we decided to move out, but we had a month left on the lease and no money to break it.

We tried to survive the remaining weeks by avoiding the living room altogether. We ate in the kitchen, watched TV in the bedroom, and even set up a temporary sleeping arrangement in the guest room. Mori became more agitated, and one day she scratched at the red door until her claws were bloody. Then, she ran into the closet and disappeared. We searched for her, but there was no sign of her, and the closet was just an empty space. We called for her, but only silence answered.

On our last night in the flat, we heard Mori’s faint meow from inside the closet. We slowly opened the door, and found her sitting on a box, staring at us with an unnatural stillness. As we bent down to pick her up, the door slammed shut behind us, and the red paint seemed to bleed down the walls. We were trapped inside the closet, and the whisper grew louder: ‘You’re home now.’