The Painted Door of Room 14

I remember the first time I stepped into the old dormitory on the edge of the university campus. It was a red-brick building, crumbling at the corners, with ivy crawling over the windows like skeletal fingers. My roommate, Dana, had chosen it because it was cheap and close to the library. But I soon learned that cheap meant a lot of things, and one of them was that the door to Room 14, at the end of the hall on the third floor, was always painted a different color. Some weeks it was a sickly yellow, other weeks a bruised purple, and once a shade of green that almost matched the mold growing on the walls. The students called it the ‘Painter’s Room,’ and nobody stayed there long.

My first month, I was too busy with classes and trying to adjust to my new life to pay much attention. But I had a friend, Jonah, who was an art major, and he often came by to use the studio in the basement. One night, he was working late, and I brought him coffee. As we walked back to my room, he stopped in front of Room 14. The door was a dull, crusted red, like dried blood. Jonah stared at it, then whispered, ‘I’ve seen that color before.’ I asked what he meant, but he just shook his head and walked on.

The next week, Jonah went missing. The police searched everywhere, but he was gone. The only thing strange was that the door to Room 14 had been painted a pale, almost translucent white, and the paint was still wet. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with Jonah. I started watching the room. At night, I heard faint scratching from inside, as if someone was trying to get out. I told Dana, but she said it was just the mice.

Then came the night I discovered more. I had stayed late at the library, and when I returned, the corridor was dark. The door to Room 14 was ajar. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. Inside, the walls were covered in intricate murals, but not the kind you’d want to see. They depicted figures in torment, their faces stretched in agonized screams, and in the center, a figure that looked like Jonah, but his eyes were hollow pits. And the paint was fresh, still dripping. I stumbled back, and that’s when I saw the paintbrush on the floor. It was made of human bone, and the bristles were strands of hair.

I ran to the resident advisor, but when we returned, the door was closed and painted a bright, cheerful yellow. The RA said I was stressed and hallucinating from lack of sleep. But I knew what I saw. The next day, a new student moved into Room 14. Her name was Priya. She was quiet, artistic. I wanted to warn her, but she just smiled and said she liked the room’s creative energy.

A week later, Priya disappeared too. This time, the door was painted a deep, midnight blue. And in the mornings, I would find tiny paint flecks outside the door, but they were not paint. They were dried skin. I began to lose sleep, feeling that something was watching me. I started seeing the door in my dreams, and in the dream, the door would open, and I would see a blank canvas, and a brush would start painting my face, but it was my face contorted in fear.

I decided to leave. I packed my bags, but as I walked down the hall, I saw the door of Room 14 was now a shade of pinkish-tan, like flesh. And there were faint sounds coming from within, a rhythmic scraping, like something being shaped. I put my ear to the door. I heard a voice, low and chanting, and it was my own voice, but distorted. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I stepped back, and that’s when I saw the small plaque on the door, which I had never noticed before. It read: ‘Completed Works Only.’

I turned to leave, and the door creaked open. Inside, the room was empty, save for a single easel. On the easel was a painting of me, but I was not myself. In the painting, I was standing at the door, my hand on the handle, and my face was blank, like a canvas waiting to be filled. And in the corner, there was a signature, but it was a date: the day I moved in. I understood then: the room had been waiting for me. I walked out, but I knew I couldn’t escape. Even now, as I write this, I can smell paint, and I feel a brush against my cheek. The door to Room 14 is always waiting, and it knows my name.