The Slate-Colored Door

It had been three years since I last wrote about anything strange, and honestly, I thought that part of my life was over. I’m Marcus Hale, 22, and I live in a small town in western Virginia. My landlord, old Mr. Whitfield, had just passed at 87, and the funeral was set for a Saturday in late April. The church was St. Agnes, a modest brick building with a bell tower that hadn’t rung in decades. The service was stuffy, the air thick with the scent of lilies and old wood. I sat in the front row on the left, near a slate-colored door that led to a narrow hallway with the restrooms. That door was always kept shut, its brass handle polished but dull. As the pastor droned on about Mr. Whitfield’s life, I felt a draft. The door creaked open on its own, slowly, as if someone was pushing it from the inside. I nudged my cousin, who sat beside me. She saw it too. My uncle, on the other side, got up and shut it, turning the lock. But no sooner had he sat down than the door swung open again, wider this time, as if in defiance. The temperature in the sanctuary dropped, and the hairs on my arms stood up. The lights flickered, just once, and then steadied. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice. My family exchanged glances, but the rest of the congregation stared ahead, oblivious. After the service, I went to the hallway to check the door. It was unlocked, and the latch was old but functional. There was no one else there. I didn’t stay long. As I walked back to my car, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. That night, I dreamt of Mr. Whitfield standing at that door, his hand resting on the handle, his eyes sad. He didn’t speak, but I knew he wanted me to understand something. The next morning, I went back to the church. The pastor was there, and I asked about the door. He said it had always been finicky, but he’d never seen it open by itself like that. He told me that Mr. Whitfield had been a deacon there for forty years, and he used to sit in the front row, near that door, because it was close to the bathroom. He’d always said he wanted to keep an eye on things. I walked to the door, and as I touched the handle, I felt a faint warmth. I opened it, and in the narrow hallway, I saw a photograph hanging on the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. It was a picture of Mr. Whitfield, younger, standing by the same door, smiling. I felt a presence, not threatening, but lingering. I closed the door, and as I turned away, I heard a soft click, like the latch catching. It hasn’t opened since. But sometimes, when I pass by that church, I see the lights flicker in the window near the door, and I know he’s still there, watching over that small corner of the world he loved.