The Painted Door

My cousin Lena and I were sprawled on the faded floral rug in Grandma’s old apartment, our legs tangled as we giggled, watching the new baby, Mia, kick her chubby feet on the quilt. The room was a relic of another era—pale yellow walls with peeling paint, a heavy oak wardrobe that stood like a silent sentinel, and a single window that looked out onto the fire escape. Aunt Rosa, Mia’s mother, was in the kitchen, and my older cousin Tita was sweeping the floor near the door, her broom whispering across the scuffed linoleum. The only light came from a dusty, low-wattage bulb, casting long, misshapen shadows that seemed to breathe.

I was about to reach for a rattle when my sister, Alma, said she’d throw away a soiled diaper. She stood, dusting off her jeans, and walked toward the door, which was ajar. I watched her slip through the gap, her dark hair brushing the frame. She was going to the chute at the end of the hallway, I knew. But something niggled at me—a sudden, inexplicable urge to follow her. I rose, my bare feet silent on the worn floor, and stepped to the doorway.

The hallway was empty. The incandescent bulb at the far end flickered, but there was no sign of Alma. The trash chute was visible, its metal door slightly ajar, but she was nowhere. A cold draft slithered past me, raising goosebumps on my arms. I called out, ‘Alma?’ No answer. I turned back into the room, my heart beginning a nervous tattoo. Tita was still sweeping, the same rhythmic scratch-scratch. I asked, ‘Where’s Alma?’ Tita’s broom paused, and she looked at me with a puzzled frown. ‘She’s right there,’ she said, pointing to the bed. And there was Alma, sitting cross-legged next to Mia, tickling her toes.

My chest tightened. I had seen her leave. I had watched her walk through that door, and then she was gone for no more than a few seconds. But she was inside, playing with the baby, as if she had never left. It didn’t make sense. The doorway was the only way out of the room, and I had been right there. There was no other exit, no closet, no sliding panel. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image of her disappearing. ‘I saw you go out,’ I said, my voice thin. Alma laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. ‘I went to get rid of the diaper, but I came back in through the bathroom door, you didn’t see me.’ But there was no bathroom door in the hallway—only the main door, the chute, and a small linen closet. I knew I was right.

Later, when the others were occupied, I slipped out and examined the hallway. The bathroom was at the end, but the main door was the only way to enter the room. I ran my fingers along the wallpaper, which was a pattern of faded green vines, and noticed something odd: a thin, vertical seam near the doorframe, as if a door had been painted over. I pressed on it, and a loose rectangle of paint shifted, revealing a dark, narrow space within the wall. I had never seen it before. I peered inside, and my breath caught. It wasn’t an empty cavity—it was a small room, suffocatingly close, with walls covered in the same peeling paint. In the center stood a child’s wooden chair, and on the seat lay a dusty, cloth doll with button eyes, one of them missing. A faint, musky odor, like old paper and damp, wafted out.

I pulled back, my skin crawling. I didn’t tell anyone about the hidden space. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept glancing at the wall, and at the door that was always kept shut. I saw Alma glance at it too, her face pale, as if she knew. Finally, she whispered, ‘You saw it too, didn’t you? The other her.’ I nodded, my throat dry. She said, ‘That’s not the first time. Every time I go out, I see a version of myself in the hallway, standing by the chute, staring at me. But she’s not me. She’s wrong—her face is just slightly off.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

We decided to open the painted door again, to see what was inside. It swung open with a dry creak. The room was smaller than I remembered, the walls closer, the air thicker. The doll was gone, but in its place was a yellowed photograph, face-down. I turned it over. It was a picture of a girl who looked exactly like Alma, but her eyes were darker, and she was holding a baby in a white dress. The baby had a tear-tissue face, like an old doll. On the back, in spidery handwriting, was a date: November 14, 1987, and the name ‘Leticia.’

We later found out from Aunt Rosa that Grandma had a stillborn daughter in 1987, and that she had been buried in the yard before the apartment was built. She also mentioned that the wall had always felt odd, and that she would sometimes hear a faint crying from behind it, but she never could find the source.

I know you think we’re crazy. But we’re not. We saw her. The doppelganger. And I have a terrible feeling that she’s not just a figment. She’s waiting. Waiting for one of us to step too far, to cross that boundary, and then she’ll slip into our place, and we’ll be the one left in the painted room, watching through the dust, longing for the light.

I still don’t know what we saw that day. I only know that the painted door is real, and that it’s not just a door. It’s a trap. And one day, one of us won’t come back.