The Slow Creak of Room 204

I was seventeen when we moved into the Bellweather Arms, a sprawling, crumbling apartment building on the outskirts of a town that had seen better days. My parents were charmed by the high ceilings and the rent that was too good to be true. ‘It has character,’ my mother said, running her hand over the peeling floral wallpaper. I just wanted a place where I could have my own room. I got it: Room 204, at the end of a hallway that smelled of dust and old cooking oil.

My father had a habit of unwinding with his old karaoke machine, a relic he’d hauled from our previous home. On our third night there, he set it up in the living room, and the walls practically vibrated with his gravelly renditions of ‘My Way’ and ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ The sound bled through my door, a persistent, grating noise that made sleep impossible. I slammed my door shut, not bothering to lock it—it didn’t even have a proper lock, just a flimsy latch—and buried my head under my pillow. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted into a restless sleep.

I woke to a sound that spliced through the silence: the slow, agonizing creak of my door. It was a sound I knew intimately. If you pushed it slowly, the hinges complained like a trapped animal. But if you slammed it, it was silent. I kept my eyes closed, my heart hammering in my chest. The creak stopped after a few seconds. I opened my eyes to see the door ajar, a sliver of dim light from the hallway cutting across my floor. I was too tired to investigate. I rationalized it: my sister, Sarah, trying to scare me. I groaned, ‘Sarah, go back to bed!’ I rolled over and closed my eyes.

But as soon as my eyelids dropped, the creak started again. It wasn’t the smooth, continuous sound of a door being pushed slowly. It was halting. Creak… pause… creak… pause… as if someone was pushing it an inch at a time, then stopping. I sat up, wide awake now, my breath catching. The door was open wider now, about a foot. And in the gap, I saw something that made my blood turn cold. A hand—thin, pale, with unnaturally long fingers—was gripping the edge of the door. It was not Sarah’s hand. It was too bony, too pale, and the nails looked black in the dim light.

I scrambled to switch on my bedside lamp. The light revealed nothing. The door was still ajar, but the hand was gone. The hallway beyond was dark, the wall-mounted sconces casting weak pools of light. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ No answer. My father’s karaoke had finally stopped, and the silence was oppressive. I lay back down, my heart still racing, but I forced myself to close my eyes, thinking it must have been a trick of the light, a shadow from the tree outside the window. I eventually fell asleep again, the door still open.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke to a weight on my chest. Something was sitting on me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. The room was bathed in the faint glow of my nightlight, and I could see a figure—a woman, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with stringy hair that hung over her face. She was perched on my chest, her knees digging into my ribs. Her mouth opened, and a soft, raspy whisper escaped: ‘You left the door ajar.’ I tried to yell, but my voice was a silent croak. She leaned closer, and I could smell decay, like wet rot and old earth. ‘You must keep it shut,’ she breathed, her icy breath washing over my face.

Then, she was gone. But I was awake, drenched in sweat. The door was now fully closed, and the room was empty. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. The next morning, I told my parents, but they dismissed it as a night terror. My sister, Sarah, laughed it off. ‘Maybe it’s the ghost of the old lady who lived here,’ she said with mock solemnity. I didn’t find it funny.

Over the next week, the presence grew stronger. I started to see her in reflections, in the corner of my eye. I heard whispers at night, always the same phrase: ‘You left the door ajar.’ And the most disturbing part: the door to my room would creak open, slowly, every night, no matter how firmly I pushed it shut before bed. I began to use a chair to wedge it shut, but even then, the door would vibrate, as if something were pushing from the other side.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to confront whatever was in my room. I left the door wide open and pretended to sleep. I held my breath. After an hour, the creaking started. It was the slow, agonizing sound of the door moving, but this time it was moving from open to closed. The door was swinging shut on its own, inch by inch, with the same halting creak. When it was nearly closed, I saw her shape materialize in the doorway, her hand on the frame. She looked at me, and in a voice that was both a whisper and a scream, she said, ‘Now you understand. You must keep it shut. Always.’

The door clicked shut. The next morning, I told my parents I couldn’t stay in that room, but they refused to switch with me. ‘It’s just your imagination,’ my father said, patting my shoulder. ‘You’re just stressed about starting school.’ I didn’t care. I moved my mattress into the hallway, but my father made me put it back.

On the last night before school started, I fell asleep with the door open, too exhausted to fight. I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of my door slamming shut. I jumped up, but the room was flooded with darkness—even my nightlight had burned out. I felt my way to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I fumbled for the handle, but it was cold, unnaturally cold, and I couldn’t turn it. I began to pound on the door, screaming for my parents. But no one came. The door didn’t open. I was trapped.

I felt a presence behind me, a cold that seeped into my bones. A voice whispered in my ear: ‘You let it open. Now you must close it forever.’ I turned, and she was there, her face inches from mine. She smiled, a thin, bloodless grin, and then she vanished. In the silence, I heard the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking into place. From the outside.

They found me the next morning, huddled in the corner, shaking. The door was locked from the outside, but there was no key. No one could have locked it. I never stayed in that room again. I slept on the couch for the rest of the time we lived there, and I never opened that door again. But sometimes, when I pass by Room 204, I hear a faint, rhythmic creaking from inside. And I know that she’s still there, waiting for someone to leave the door ajar again.