The Panting Behind the Door

I was six when I first saw the dog. It wasn’t a normal dog—no, it was a shaggy, black thing with eyes that glowed like embers, and it would appear at the foot of my bed, barking and jumping, its paws thudding against the mattress. I’d scream, and my mother would rush in, her footsteps soft, and she’d sit beside me, never turning on the light. ‘Hush, love, it’s just a dream,’ she’d murmur, but even then, I felt her hand tremble on my shoulder.

We lived in a creaking Victorian house on the edge of a forest, a place where the wind moaned through loose windows and the stairs groaned like they were alive. My parents blamed my imagination, but I knew better—the dog smelled of damp earth and decay, and its bark was a dry, hacking sound that seemed to come from inside my own skull. It vanished when I turned eight, and over the years, I almost convinced myself it was a childhood fancy.

Then, on my seventeenth birthday, it all came back. I was in the kitchen, blowing out candles, when the air turned cold and stale, and I felt a gaze prickling the back of my neck. I spun around—nothing. But my shadow on the wall seemed to waver, as if something stood just beyond the light. My parents noticed my pale face and asked if I was okay. I said yes, but I wasn’t. That night, I lay in bed, the TV chattering in the corner, and I heard it: a low, wet panting, right outside my door.

I froze. The sound was rhythmic, like a huge beast breathing, and it was accompanied by a soft scratching—claws dragging across the wood. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The panting stopped, but a moment later, it started again, closer. I pulled the covers over my head, my heart hammering, and didn’t sleep until dawn.

Over the next week, the house itself seemed to shift. The hallway grew longer at night; doors I’d left open would be shut; and I’d catch a glimpse of a dark, shaggy shape in the mirror, always gone when I turned. My parents noticed my exhaustion and the dark circles under my eyes, but when I tried to explain, my mother grew pale and said, ‘It’s just stress from school.’ She avoided my gaze, and I knew she was lying.

Last night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I crept downstairs at midnight, my phone flashlight trembling in my hand, to prove to myself that nothing was there. The living room was empty, the TV off. But as I stood at the threshold, I heard the panting again—my bedroom door, upstairs, open and shut with a soft click. I rushed up, my heart thundering, and found my door slightly ajar. Inside, the TV flickered to static, and the scent of damp earth filled the room. On my bed, the covers were thrown back, and in the center lay a single, black hair.

I staggered back, and that’s when I saw it—at the end of the hallway, a dark shape, taller than a dog, with glowing eyes, watching. It took a step toward me, and its breath fogged the air. I turned and ran, but the hallway stretched, the door at the end growing farther and farther away. Behind me, I heard a chittering, a growl, and then a voice—my mother’s voice, but wrong—whispering, ‘You never should have looked.’

I woke up on the floor of my bedroom, the morning light streaming through the curtains. The TV was off, and the door was closed. But on the floor by the door, there was a fresh scratch mark, deep and dark, and the faint sound of panting, just on the other side.