The Painted Door

The day we moved into the Juniper Flats, I knew we were in for a rough stretch. My husband, Carl, had taken a night shift at the warehouse, and I was left to wrangle our two kids, four-year-old Milo and little Fern, who was just learning to walk. The apartment was a cramped, two-story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and a skinny kitchen downstairs, the paint peeling in the corners like dead skin. It was the best we could afford, so I tried to make it feel like home, even as the floorboards creaked under my feet.

From the start, Milo was a talker. He’d spend hours in his room, chattering away to himself, and I’d smile, thinking it was just his imagination. But one morning, I heard him say, ‘No, the red door is mine.’ I froze, my hand on the banister. I peeked into his room, and there he was, sitting on the floor, holding his toy truck, staring at the wall as if someone were there. I asked him who he was talking to, and he just smiled, ‘My friend. He lives in the wall.’ I laughed it off, but something about the way he said it made my skin prickle.

After that, I started noticing strange things. The smell of mold that wasn’t there, the feeling of being watched, the way the shadows seemed to shift in the corners of the room. One afternoon, I was putting Fern down for a nap when I heard Milo crying. I rushed into his room and found him pointing at the wall, his face white. ‘He won’t let me play with the blue car,’ he whimpered. I scooped him up and told him it was just his imagination, but I couldn’t shake the chill in the air.

Then, one evening, Carl called to say he’d be late. It was just me and the kids. I put them to bed and tried to read, but the house felt different that night, heavier. I heard a soft thump from upstairs, like a door closing. I went to check on the kids and found Milo’s bedroom door shut, though I’d left it ajar. I opened it and saw Milo standing in the middle of the room, his eyes wide, pointing at the wall. ‘He wants you to go away,’ he said. I looked at the wall, and for a moment, I thought I saw a face in the peeling paint, a mouth open in a silent scream.

I told myself it was the stress, the lack of sleep, but I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about Milo’s words. The next morning, I noticed a faint, dark stain on the wall in Milo’s room, shaped like a door. I tried to scrub it off, but it wouldn’t budge. I called Carl, but he said I was overreacting. That’s when I started to really feel afraid.

I did some research online, found out that the apartment complex had a history. There had been a fire decades ago, and a family had died, including a little boy. They never found his body. I felt a knot in my stomach. I started talking to Milo about his friend, trying to understand. He told me his friend was sad, that he couldn’t leave, that the red door was his. I asked him where the red door was, and he pointed to the stained wall.

I decided I had to do something. I bought sage, tried to cleanse the house, but nothing worked. One night, I woke up to noise coming from Milo’s room, a low humming, like a child’s song. I crept upstairs and saw a soft, red glow emanating from the stain. I burst into the room, and there was Milo, sitting on the floor, his back to me, humming along. I saw the stain had become a real door, a bright red door, slightly ajar. Inside, I could see a hallway, dark and endless.

Milo turned to me, his eyes not quite his own. ‘He wants to show me his room,’ he said. I grabbed him, held him tight, and slammed the door shut. But I could feel it, a cold breath on my neck. I realized the door was now in my bathroom, and it was open.

I knew then I had to leave. I packed up the kids in the middle of the night, drove to my mother’s place. I never told her why. I didn’t dare go back for our things. We left everything, the furniture, the clothes. I just wanted to get away from that place.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that red door. And I wonder, did Milo’s friend follow us? Because last night, I heard a humming from Fern’s room, and when I looked in, the wall had a stain, and Fern was giggling, pointing at it, and saying, ‘He’s here.’ And when I looked, I could swear I saw a small hand emerging from the wall, waving.