The Painted Door

My name is Elias, and I’m sixteen. Three years ago, my family moved to a small, forgotten town called Raven’s Hollow, nestled in the foothills of the Cascades. The town was built around an old lumber mill that had been closed for decades, and the air always smelled of damp wood and decay. My mother had passed away just months before the move, and the new place felt like a fresh start, but also a permanent shadow.

Our house was a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a wrap-around porch. It had a peculiar feature: a painted door on the second floor that opened to a solid brick wall. The previous owner had sealed it up, but the outline of the door was still visible, painted over in a dark, glossy red. My father had a habit of staying up late to work on his thesis, and I’d often hear him pacing downstairs.

About two months ago, on a rainy October evening, my father was in the kitchen making soup. I was at my friend Maya’s house, and she lived a few blocks away. Suddenly, the house shuddered as if a truck had hit it, and I heard a violent slam from upstairs. My father told me later that it was my bedroom door, which had been closed, had slammed open and then shut with such force that the glass in the windows rattled. He ran upstairs, but the door was closed, and when he opened it, the room was empty, and the window was shut tight. He shrugged it off, blaming the wind, even though there was no wind.

A week later, I was in my room, reading a comic and lying on my bed. My headphones were on, blasting some indie rock, but I felt a sudden drop in temperature, like a cold hand had touched the back of my neck. I pulled off my headphones, and the room was silent. The air was so cold I could see my breath. I felt a tingling on my arms and legs, like static electricity, and the hair on my arms stood up. I knew I wasn’t alone.

I turned slowly, and there, in the corner of my room, was a figure—a woman in a white nightgown, her face pale and indistinct, her hair hanging in wet strands. She was just standing there, staring at me. I blinked, and she was gone. My poster of a mountain range had fallen off the wall, and the frame had cracked.

The next morning, I tried to convince myself it was a dream, but the following week, things escalated. I woke up to scratching sounds coming from inside the walls, like nails raking the plaster. The scratching would stop when I moved, but resume when I lay still. At night, I began to hear a faint humming, like a lullaby, but in a language I didn’t recognize.

One evening, I was home alone. My father had gone to the store. I decided to investigate the painted door. I had never touched it before; it seemed forbidden. I ran my fingers over the red paint, and the paint felt sticky, like it was fresh. I pushed on the door, and it swung inward, revealing a small, dark room that shouldn’t exist. The room was empty, but the walls were covered in childish drawings—stick figures with smiley faces, but the eyes were all black and hollow. And in the center of the room, there was a cradle, dust-covered, with a tattered blanket.

As I stepped in, I heard a voice behind me, a soft whisper in my ear: ‘You’re not welcome here.’ I spun around, but no one was there. The door slammed shut, and I was trapped in darkness. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I screamed. The door flung open, and I fell out into the hallway, gasping.

When my father returned, he found me huddled on the floor, shaking. I tried to tell him, but he dismissed it, saying I had a vivid imagination. But I knew better. And that night, I saw her again, the woman in white, standing at the foot of my bed. She pointed a long, pale finger at the wall, toward the painted door. I understood then that she wanted me to open it, to unleash whatever was inside.

The next day, I went to the local library to research the house’s history. I found an old newspaper from 1912: a woman named Margaret lived in that house, and she had a baby that died under mysterious circumstances. She was accused of killing it and thrown in the river. The water man never found her body. They say she still searches for her child.

And then I realized: I am the same age as her child would have been when he died. Maybe she thinks I’m her son. But why now? Maybe it’s because I’m moving to college soon—she doesn’t want to be alone.

That night, I heard the lullaby louder than ever. I got out of bed and walked, as if in a trance, toward the painted door. My hand reached out to touch it, and I heard my mother’s voice—my real mother—say, ‘Elias, don’t.’ But the painted door was warm, and it felt like it was breathing. I pushed it open.

Inside, the room had transformed. There was a rocking chair facing a crib, and in the crib, a baby was crying. The woman in white was standing in the corner, crying too. I felt a pull, and I stepped closer to the crib. The baby looked up at me with black eyes, and it smiled. The woman vanished, and I was alone with the child. I felt an overwhelming urge to pick it up, but something in my head screamed.

I tore myself away and ran. I slammed the door, locked it, and shoved a dresser against it. I stumbled to my bed, tears streaming. I knew the door wasn’t closed for good.

Now, a month later, I still live in that house, but I haven’t opened that door again. I keep it locked, and I put a heavy bookshelf in front of it. But every night, at 3:33, I hear the lullaby, and I feel a cold draft under that door. And sometimes, when I pass by, I see the painted door ajar, and I know she’s watching. I don’t know how much longer I can resist. But I’ve started writing this account, hoping someone will understand what’s happening.

This is my story. I don’t know if I will survive, but if you ever see a painted door, don’t touch it. Because it might not be just a door—it’s a threshold between our world and the ones who wait.