The Pale Figure in the Doorframe

The old house on Cedar Lane had always felt wrong, but for fifteen-year-old Maya, it was home. Her parents had bought it cheap after a foreclosure, and the musty smell and creaking floors were just part of its charm. But there was one thing she hated: the bedroom door. It never stayed closed. No matter how hard she pushed it, it would slowly drift open, as if some invisible hand wanted it that way. She had taken to wedging a folded towel under it, but even that only delayed the inevitable.

On a cold October night, Maya was lying in bed, her face turned to the wall, her back to the door, as always. She’d just fastened her eyes when she heard the familiar creak of the door swinging open. She sighed, assuming it was her mother checking on her before heading to the bathroom. ‘I’ll close it in a minute,’ she thought, but sleep pulled her under before she could.

Hours later, she woke with a start. The room was bathed in a faint, bluish light from the streetlamp outside. She turned over, expecting to see the door open as usual, but instead, she saw a figure standing in the doorframe. It was stark white, like a mannequin covered in chalk dust, with elongated limbs and a head that seemed too smooth, featureless except for two dark hollows where eyes should be. It was just standing there, motionless, as if it had been there for hours, watching her sleep.

Maya’s breath caught in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to ten, and opened them, hoping it would disappear. But it was still there. She fumbled for the lamp on her nightstand, her hand trembling. The click of the switch was deafening in the silence, and when the light flooded the room, the figure remained, now even more distinct against the dark hallway behind it.

She wanted to scream, but her voice was frozen. She forced herself out of bed, her legs shaking, and stood, facing the thing. It didn’t move. She took a step closer, then another, until she was inches away from its flat, white face. Up close, she could see the texture of it – like old, dried skin stretched over a skeleton. It smelled faintly of dust and cold metal.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered. The figure didn’t respond, but she felt a strange vibration in the air, a low hum that made her teeth ache. It slowly raised a long, thin arm, and pointed a finger past her, toward the window. Maya turned instinctively, and for a second, she saw a reflection – the reflection of a room, but not her room. It was a room with peeling wallpaper, a child’s bed, and a rocking chair that moved on its own. Then the reflection shifted, and she saw a woman in a white dress, her back to her, the same figure, but with long, tangled hair, slowly turning around.

Maya stumbled backward, but when she looked again, the figure in the doorframe was gone. The door was closed. The room was quiet, and the lamp cast a warm, yellow glow. She ran to the window and looked out, but the yard was empty. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing.

She didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the corner of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the door. When morning came, she told her parents, but they brushed it off as a nightmare. ‘You’ve been reading too many scary stories,’ her mother said, but Maya knew what she saw.

A week later, she found an old photograph in the attic. It was of a girl her age, standing in front of a house that looked exactly like hers, but in the photo, the paint was new. The girl was alone, and in the background, in the window of the upstairs bedroom, was a pale white face watching her. On the back of the photo, in faded handwriting, were the words: ‘She’s still here.’