The Sixth Door

In the autumn of 1931, my grandfather told me a story that had been passed down to him from a friend. The place was the outskirts of Bloemfontein, a dusty town in the heart of the Free State, but the farm itself was isolated, miles from any neighbor. The farmhouse, called ‘Rusthof’, had been abandoned for decades, and the local farmers whispered that it was cursed. My grandfather, a young man then named Willem, and his friend Pieter, a boisterous Dutchman with a love for the macabre, decided to investigate one Saturday morning. They borrowed bicycles from a nearby shop and pedaled out under a pale, indifferent sun.

The road to Rusthof was overgrown, and the farm itself seemed to swallow the light. Tall eucalyptus trees, planted as a windbreak, surrounded the house in a tight ring, their leaves hanging motionless. As they approached, the air grew still, and the birdsong ceased. Pieter laughed nervously and said, ‘It’s just the quiet before a storm.’ Willem said nothing, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

They leaned their bikes against the broken veranda and stepped onto the sagging porch. The front door was ajar, and through the gap they saw a dark hallway leading to a staircase. Pieter pushed the door open with a creak that echoed like a groan. Inside, the dust lay thick, and the only light came from the gaps in the boarded windows. They found themselves in a large sitting room, furnished with moth-eaten sofas and a piano covered in a sheet. On the mantelpiece, a row of portraits stared at them, their eyes seeming to follow their every move.

They explored the ground floor: a kitchen with rusted pots, a dining room with a long table, and a study lined with books that crumbled to dust when touched. As they walked, Willem noticed that there were doors in the hallway, six in total, but the sixth door at the end was painted a different color, a deep red, and had no handle. He pointed it out, but Pieter said, ‘Probably just a storage closet.’ Willem tried to push it, but it wouldn’t budge.

They climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The steps groaned under their weight, and Pieter’s boots left prints in the dust. At the top, they found a narrow corridor with four doors. The first room was a bedroom with a rusted bed frame and a wardrobe that stood open, empty. The second was a nursery, with a cracked doll on the floor and a rocking chair that moved gently on its own, as if someone had just left. Pieter chuckled, but Willem stepped back, his heart racing.

The third room was a bathroom, with a claw-foot tub filled with stagnant, black water. The fourth room was locked. Willem jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. Pieter, ever fearless, took out a crowbar from his bag and pried it open. Inside, they found a small chapel, with a wooden altar and a single pew. On the wall hung a crucifix, upside down. Pieter’s smile faded. ‘This is not right,’ he muttered.

As they stood there, they heard a faint scratching sound from below, like nails on wood. It seemed to come from the sixth door. They exchanged a glance and made their way down, their steps quickening. At the bottom, they stood before the red door. The scratching had stopped. Pieter leaned close and listened. Then, a voice, soft and childlike, whispered from the other side, ‘Let me out.’ Pieter’s eyes widened. He reached for the door, but Willem grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t,’ Willem said. ‘We should leave.’ But Pieter shook his head. ‘It’s a child. We can’t just leave it.’ He pulled away and tried to force the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The voice came again, more pleading. ‘Please, let me out.’ Pieter took his crowbar and wedged it under the frame, but the door held. Finally, with a great effort, the door burst open, and a cold gust of wind rushed out, extinguishing Pieter’s lantern.

In the darkness, Willem heard Pieter scream, a sound that curdled his blood. The lantern flickered back on, revealing Pieter standing frozen, his face pale. In front of him, a small, shadowy figure stood, its face hidden. The figure pointed a finger at Pieter, and Pieter fell to his knees, clutching his throat, gasping for air. Willem tried to pull him, but Pieter was stiff. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished, and Pieter began to breathe.

They fled the house, leaving the bikes behind, and ran down the dirt road without looking back. Pieter never spoke of what he saw, and he refused to return to the farm. Willem later heard that Pieter was found dead a month later, his face frozen in terror, a single handprint burned into his chest. The handprint was small, like a child’s, and it was the same deep red as the sixth door.

My grandfather told me this story only once, and he made me promise never to seek out Rusthof. But I have never forgotten the look in his eyes when he spoke of that door, and I often wonder what lay behind it, waiting for the next curious soul to release it. Sometimes, when the wind is still, I think I hear a faint scratching at my own door, and a whisper that says, ‘Let me out.’