The Pale Green Door

I’ve never been one for ghost stories, and I still don’t know if what we encountered was a spirit or something worse. But I can’t deny what happened that week in the old farmhouse outside of Ellery. It was a place my mom had inherited from a distant aunt, a rambling structure with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like a tired old hound. We moved in mid-spring, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and blooming lilacs. I was fourteen, my brother Derek was eleven, and my sister Marley was eight. Mom had brought us there to start over after Dad left, but the house felt more like an ending than a beginning.

That first Friday, we’d broken out an old Ouija board Marley found in the attic. It was a dusty thing with a cracked planchette, but we were bored and looking for a thrill. We sat in a circle on the living room floor, the only light from a single lamp that flickered with the house’s faulty wiring. Mom was in the kitchen, humming some old song, oblivious or pretending not to care. Derek, Marley, and I placed our fingers on the planchette. We started with the typical questions—Are you there? What’s your name?—and got nothing. Then, after a few minutes, the planchette began to move on its own, steady and deliberate, spelling out a name: PETER.

We asked who Peter was. The board spelled out: I LIVE HERE. Then, I DIED HERE. My blood went cold, but I pressed on. How did you die? The planchette slid to the letters F, A, L, L, then stopped. It moved again, spelling W-E-L-L. We all glanced toward the back window, where the night pressed in black against the glass. The board then spelled: MY PARENTS PUT ME DOWN. I asked for more, but Marley jerked her hand away, crying that she felt something cold on her neck. We called it a night, but I couldn’t shake the image of a well behind the house.

The next day, I went to check. The backyard was a tangle of uncut grass and old apple trees, and near the edge of the property, half-hidden by brambles, I found a stone ring covered with a rotted wooden lid. I pried it off and peered down. It wasn’t deep, maybe fifteen feet, and the bottom was dark and damp, filled with dead leaves and a glint of something metallic. Nothing else. I told everyone I saw nothing, but later that night, I dreamt of a small, pale hand reaching up from that darkness, its fingers closing around the rim.

The week that followed was a slide into madness. On Sunday, we heard the sound of crying, a high, thin wail that seemed to come from inside the walls. Mom dismissed it as the wind, but I felt it in my bones. On Monday, Marley said she saw a little boy standing in the hallway, soaked, with mud in his hair. We searched the house and found nothing. On Tuesday, Derek started sleepwalking. I found him standing at the back door, facing the yard, whispering, “He wants me to go out there.” I shook him awake, and he had no memory of it.

Wednesday night, the board was out again—I’d left it on the table, and we all felt compelled to use it. We asked Peter why he was still here. The planchette spelled: THEY WON’T LET ME LEAVE. WHO? I asked. The answer: THE ONES IN THE WALLS. My skin prickled. I asked what the ones in the walls wanted. The planchette flew across the board, spelling: TO BE FREE. THEN WE ALL DIE.

We tried to stop using the board, but it seemed to call to us. On Thursday, I went outside alone at dusk, driven by an urge I couldn’t explain. The well was uncovered still, and the opening looked like a mouth at the bottom of the yard. I stood at the edge, staring down, and saw something move—a pale shape that resolved into a face, a boy’s face, with hollow dark eyes. He mouthed, “Help me.” I stumbled back, my heart racing. I told no one, but that night I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle, and heard a creak from the hallway. I got up and peered out, and there was a shadow that moved with an unnatural speed, darting into the spare room.

Friday came, a week after we’d first spoken to Peter. We were all in the living room again, the board between us. We had decided to ask how to help him. The planchette spelled: OPEN THE DOOR. I asked which door. It spelled: THE PALE GREEN DOOR IN THE CELLAR. I’d never noticed, but there was a cellar door we hadn’t explored, mostly because it was rusted shut. We managed to pry it open, and the smell of mildew and something fetid washed out. We descended the stone steps, Derek holding a flashlight, and found a door painted a sickly green, covered in scratches. The board had followed us somehow; we brought it down. We asked, Is this the door? The planchette slammed to Yes.

I hesitated. There was a faint sound on the other side, like a child’s voice singing, low and sweet. I felt that I had to open it. I reached for the knob, but Mom called from the top of the stairs, “Dinner! Get up here!” We froze. The singing stopped. The door seemed to breathe, and I saw the scratches were marks from the inside—someone trying to get out. But also, somewhere behind us, I heard the well’s lid slide shut with a heavy thud. I turned, and the green door was now unmarked, pristine, as if newly painted. But on the floor in front of it, there was a small muddy footprint, too small for any of us.

We grabbed the board and fled upstairs, but the rest of that evening, the house was quiet. No cries, no whispers, no sleepwalking. In fact, the whole rest of our time there was peaceful, almost as if nothing had happened. But I never went back to the cellar. And now, years later, I still find myself waking at night, hearing that faint singing, and a voice that whispers, “You left me down here. But the door is open now. It’s always open.” I don’t know if that was a ghost or a warning, but I know one thing: I never want to see a pale green door again.