The Third Door

When we moved into the old farmhouse, I was excited. The previous owners had left behind a few pieces of furniture, including a heavy oak wardrobe in my room. It stood against the wall, its doors slightly ajar, revealing a dark interior that smelled of mothballs and dust. The house itself was set out like this: you entered through a wide porch into a long, narrow hallway. To your right was the sitting room, then the kitchen beyond that. To your left were two bedrooms, and at the end of the hall, a bathroom. My room was the smaller of the two, tucked next to the kitchen, with a window overlooking the overgrown garden. My younger brother, Jonah, had the larger room next to mine, and our parents slept in the converted attic upstairs. I was thirteen, Jonah was ten, and we had no idea what we were getting into.

It started on the third night. I woke up at 3:15 AM, the digital clock glowing in the dark. I felt a cold draft, as if the window had been left open, but it was closed. Then I heard it: a faint, rhythmic scratching from inside the wardrobe. Not like a mouse, but like something writing. I lay still, heart pounding, and tried to convince myself it was branches against the glass. But the scraping continued, slow and deliberate, like nails on a chalkboard. I switched on my bedside lamp, but the light only made the darkness in the wardrobe seem deeper. The scratching stopped. I sat up, staring at the wardrobe, and that’s when I noticed something. The wardrobe door was slightly more open than before, revealing a sliver of blackness. I must have imagined it. I went back to sleep, chalking it up to a dream.

The next night, the same thing happened, but the scratching was louder, and I could swear I heard a voice whispering my name: ‘Eli, Eli…’ It was high-pitched, almost childish, but not human. I turned on the light again, and this time the wardrobe door was fully open, revealing the back of the wardrobe. There was something there, a faint outline of a small figure, like a shadow made solid. Just as quickly, it vanished. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and in the morning, I told Jonah. He looked at me with wide eyes and said, ‘I hear it too. From my room, it’s like someone’s knocking on the wall between our rooms.’ We agreed not to tell our parents, thinking they’d say it was just our imagination.

On the fifth night, I decided to investigate. I got out of bed and crept to the wardrobe, my heart hammering. I pulled the doors open wide, and found nothing but a few hangers and a pile of old clothes. But as I turned to go back to bed, I heard a soft thud from behind me, and the wardrobe door slammed shut. I spun around, and on the door, in what looked like dirt, was a message written in spidery handwriting: ‘LET ME IN.’ I backed away, tripping over a rug, and fell hard on the floor. Jonah burst in, his face pale. ‘I heard the slam,’ he whispered. We both stared at the wardrobe, and then I noticed the wardrobe was no longer against the wall. It had moved, just a few inches, but it had moved. The floorboards beneath it were scratched.

The next morning, we examined the outside of the wardrobe. There was a small, old keyhole, and I realized we had never seen a key. I checked every drawer and shelf, but there was no key. That evening, I had a terrible idea: to write back. I found a piece of chalk and wrote on the wardrobe door: ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ We waited. Nothing happened for a long time. We went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. At 3:15 exactly, I heard the scratching again. I got up and looked at the door. The chalk message was gone, and in its place, in the same dirt-like writing: ‘I AM THE LAST TENANT.’ Below it, smaller: ‘THEY WALLED ME UP.’ I felt a chill. I ran to my parents’ room, but they were sound asleep. I didn’t know what to do.

That night, I had a dream. I was standing in a small, dark room, no bigger than a closet. The walls were rough plaster, and there was a tiny window high up, but it was boarded over. I could hear scratching all around me, and I realized I was trapped. I woke up screaming. Jonah came in, looking terrified. ‘The knocking is getting louder,’ he said. ‘It’s like it’s inside the wall.’ We stared at each other, and then we both heard it: a low, rhythmic pounding coming from the wall between our rooms. We pressed our ears to the wall, and it was as if someone was hammering from the other side, desperate to get out.

We decided to open the wall. We knew it was crazy, but we were compelled. We found a hammer and chisel in the garage, and that night, we chipped away at the plaster. It was slow going, but we worked in silence. After an hour, we broke through to something. A hollow space. We widened the hole, and inside, we found a small bundle: a child’s shoe, a toy soldier, and a rusty key. The key was old, ornate, with a pattern like a lotus. We immediately thought of the wardrobe. My hand trembled as I inserted the key into the lock. It turned with a click.

But before I could open the door, the entire house seemed to shake, and we heard a deep, guttural growl from inside the wardrobe. The doors burst open, and a figure emerged. It was the shape of a small child, but its skin was gray and peeling, and its eyes were black, like pools of tar. It opened its mouth, and a sound came out, not a scream, but a wail of pure misery. ‘You took my key,’ it said, in a voice that was both old and young. ‘Now you must take my place.’

I didn’t think. I threw the key at it, and it caught it, and the figure seemed to almost smile. Then it turned and stepped back into the wardrobe, vanishing into the darkness. The door slammed shut by itself. We stood there, breathless. When we finally mustered the courage to open the wardrobe, it was empty, and the wall behind it was solid brick. The knocking never came again.

But I still have the shoe and the toy soldier. I keep them in a box under my bed. And sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint scratching from the box, and a whisper that sounds like my name. I never told my parents the full truth. But I never open that box either. Because I know what’s waiting to come out.