The Second Door

The August heat clung to everything like a second skin, and the drive to the mineral baths had been a furnace of complaints and bickering. My mother, ever optimistic, had insisted that a day of soaking in the hot springs would ‘wash away our tensions.’ My older sister, Celia, had spent the entire journey staring out the window, her silence a deliberate provocation. Our maid, Rosa, sat in the back, fanning herself with a folded magazine, her eyes darting between us with weary patience.

We arrived at the sprawling resort complex, a relic of a bygone era with its peeling stucco walls and the faint sulfuric tang of the waters. My mother checked us in while Celia and I immediately found something to argue about – the placement of our towels, the shade of the umbrella, the audacity of the other breathing. Our voices rose, sharp and ugly, until my mother snapped at us to behave. Tears of frustration burned my eyes, and without a word, I grabbed my bag and stalked off toward the private family suites.

I knew my brother, Damian, had a room reserved for him even though he hadn’t joined us. A key card dangled from its slot, and I let myself in, slamming the door behind me. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the brutal sun, and it smelled of stale cologne and old wood. The coolness was a relief. I decided to take a shower to calm down, and I noticed the bathroom had not one but two doors – one leading to the living room, the other directly into the bedroom I was in. I locked the bedroom door, then the bathroom door to the living room, and stepped into the shower.

The water was hot, almost scalding, and it beat against my skin, washing away the heat and the anger. I closed my eyes and let the steam envelop me. That’s when I heard it – a soft knock. It came from the bathroom door that led to the living room. I frowned, turned off the water, and stood dripping in the sudden silence.

‘Who is there?’ I called out, my voice echoing off the tiles.

No answer. Just the hiss of the faucet and the distant murmur of pipes. I dismissed it as my imagination – maybe a pipe, maybe a guest’s door down the hall. I turned the water back on and resumed my shower, letting the spray drown my thoughts.

Then the knock came again, louder this time, more insistent. Three solid thuds that made me jump. I shut off the water, my heart beginning to race.

‘Who is it?’ I demanded, my voice pitched with irritation and a flicker of fear.

Still nothing. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, my eyes fixed on the door. Water pooled at my feet. I walked to the door, unlocked it, and yanked it open – expecting to find Celia smirking on the other side. The hallway beyond was empty, lit by dim sconces that cast long shadows. A faint, sweet smell, like rotten fruit, drifted in.

I closed the door, locked it again, and decided to hurry through my shower. This time, I left the water running, but I kept my ears open. The steam thickened, and the world outside seemed to recede. I started soaping my hair, and then – a knock, directly behind me. From the door leading to the bedroom.

I froze, my heart pounding. I had locked that door. I distinctly remembered twisting the lock. The knock came again, with a rhythm that seemed almost deliberate – three slow, heavy thuds.

‘Damian?’ I called out, my voice wavering. ‘Mother, if that’s you, this isn’t funny.’

No response. I turned off the water, my hands shaking, and grabbed the same towel. I crept to the bedroom door, pressed my ear against the wood, and listened. Beyond, I could hear a faint, irregular scraping – like something being dragged across the floor.

I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked from my side, but I hadn’t unlocked it. Panic fluttered in my chest. I rattled the handle, shouting, ‘Who’s there? Answer me!’

The scraping stopped. Then, a low, guttural whisper seeped through the crack: ‘You opened the wrong door.’

I stumbled back, colliding with the sink. The bathroom suddenly felt smaller, the walls pressing in. I spun around to the other door – the one to the living room – and saw that it, too, was locked. But I hadn’t locked it? I had locked it. I fumbled with the lock, my fingers slick with humidity, and threw the door open.

The living room was empty, but the air was colder than it should be, and there was a smell – like wet earth and burnt hair. The main door to the hallway stood ajar, swinging slowly on its hinges. And in the threshold, I saw a figure – a tall silhouette, backlit by the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor. It turned its head slightly, and I caught a glimpse of a face that was not a face but a smooth, pale void.

I screamed and slammed the door, my back against it, my breath ragged. I fumbled for the phone, but the line was dead. I pounded on the walls, shouting for help, but no one came. The only sound was the drip of the shower and, from behind the bedroom door, a soft, rhythmic knocking that seemed to be counting down.

I lost track of time. An hour? Two? I huddled in the corner, watching both doors, my mind unraveling. The knocking moved – sometimes from the bedroom door, sometimes from the living room door, sometimes from inside the walls. And each time, I heard that whisper, clearer and closer: ‘You shouldn’t have come alone. You shouldn’t have opened the second door.’

Finally, I heard a familiar voice from the hallway – my mother’s voice, calling my name. I wept with relief, unlocked the main door, and flung it open. My mother, Celia, and Rosa stood there, their faces pale, their eyes wide.

‘What happened?’ my mother asked. ‘We heard you screaming from the garden.’

I tried to explain, the words tumbling out in a flood. They exchanged glances – the kind that said they didn’t believe me. Celia rolled her eyes. ‘You’re such a drama queen. You probably just had a bad dream.’

They led me back to the lobby, but I kept looking over my shoulder. As we passed the hallway to the family suites, I saw the door to Damian’s room – my brother’s room – slowly closing on its own, as if someone had just stepped through. And from inside, I heard a faint, familiar knock.

Later that night, back at home, my mother asked me where Damian was. I said I didn’t know. But I did know. I hadn’t seen him all day. And that room – I had been in his room, but the figure in the doorway, the whisper, the knocking – none of it was him. It was something that had been waiting for someone to open that door.

I never took a shower alone again. And every time I pass a door, I check the lock twice – because now I know that some doors are not meant to be opened, and some whispers are best left unanswered.