The Third Door

The old farmhouse had a way of holding onto things—dust in the corners, creaks in the floorboards, and the memory of a girl who never quite left. My name is Evelyn, and I grew up there with my brother, Daniel, and our mother, who spent most of her time tending to the garden or preserving jars of vegetables that lined the pantry like soldiers. I was seven when it happened, old enough to know better, but still young enough to believe in monsters under the bed.

It was a humid August afternoon. The screen door slammed shut behind me as I came in from playing, the heat clinging to my skin. Mother was in the kitchen, humming off-key while she peeled apples for a pie. Daniel was sprawled on the living room rug, flipping through a comic book, his legs kicking lazily. I had a toy horse in my hand—a plastic palomino with a missing ear—and I decided I wanted to bring my favorite blanket from my room. The one with the faded stars.

I padded down the hallway, my bare feet slapping against the worn floorboards. The door to my room was open, just a crack, and enough light spilled from the living room to see the clutter on my floor: dolls, crayons, a half-finished puzzle. I didn’t bother with the light switch. I stepped inside, scanning the floor for the blanket, which I spotted crumpled near the foot of my bed.

That’s when I felt it. A shift in the air, like the room had exhaled. Then the breathing. It was right next to me, so close I could feel the warmth of it on my cheek. It was deep, ragged, furious—each exhale a growl, each inhale a snarl. I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs. I told myself it was the wind, or the pipes, or my imagination. But the breathing didn’t stop. It was so loud, so clear, that I could almost taste the anger in it. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to three, willing it to be nothing. When I opened them, the air was still. The breathing had stopped. I turned and ran, leaving my blanket behind, and I never went back to that room alone again.

Mother dismissed it as a draft, or perhaps a raccoon in the walls. Daniel teased me, calling me a scaredy-cat. But I knew what I heard. Over the years, I convinced myself it was a nightmare, a childish fright. But then, when I was sixteen, Daniel moved his things into that room. He laughed at my warnings, called them old wives’ tales. A week later, he came downstairs with his face pale, his hands shaking. He said he’d felt something. Heard something. He wouldn’t tell me more, but that night he slept on the couch.

I’m thirty now, and I’ve come back to the farmhouse to sort through Mother’s belongings after her passing. The house is silent, except for the wind through the screens. Tonight, I’m sleeping in my old room, out of necessity. The others are filled with boxes. I’ve left the lights on, but as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, I hear it again. The same breathing. It’s right beside me, just beyond the pillow. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I think, if I open my eyes, I’ll see something. But I also know, some doors were never meant to be opened. The third door in the hallway—the one that was always locked—I saw it standing ajar earlier, and from inside, there was a whisper of something that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: what I’ll find when I open that door, or what I’ll find if I close my eyes and let the breathing lull me to sleep.