The Threshold of Morning

The night before, I’d been watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures, their bioluminescent glows pulsing in the dark. It was nearly two in the morning when I finally turned off the TV, my eyes burning. I crashed on the living room couch, the faint hum of the refrigerator my only lullaby. I woke to a sharp, insistent scratching at the bedroom door—not the front door, but the door to the spare room we rarely used. It was my neighbor’s cat, a sleek black thing that often wandered in through the dog door. I grumbled, shuffled over, and let it in. It darted inside, disappearing into the gloom.

I stumbled back to the couch, but sleep wouldn’t return. My own room felt wrong—always had, ever since I’d moved in. The air was stale, and I often felt watched in there. But the morning light was already creeping through the blinds, and I figured, what could happen in daylight? So I dragged myself up and went to my room, leaving the door ajar so the cat could find its way out if it wanted.

I lay down, the sheets cool and faintly musty. The clock on my nightstand read 5:47 AM. I closed my eyes, but my mind refused to quiet. I heard a soft thud from the hallway, like something heavy being set down. Then the click of the bathroom door. I sat up, heart thumping. The house was still, but I felt a presence, an emptiness that was somehow full. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I got up, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and padded to the hallway. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and I could see the shadow of the cat’s tail disappear behind the shower curtain.

I pushed the door open. The cat was sitting on the closed toilet lid, staring at the mirror. It wasn’t looking at itself; it was looking at the reflection of the doorway behind it. I followed its gaze, but saw nothing. Then the light flickered. I looked up; the bulb was new, but it dimmed for a split second, as if something had passed between it and the switch. The cat’s ears flattened. It leapt off the toilet and bolted past me, out of the room, and down the hall.

I stood there, my breath shallow. The mirror—old, with a slightly tarnished edge—seemed to hold a faint smudge, a handprint that hadn’t been there before. I rubbed it with my sleeve, but the smudge remained, as if it were on the other side. A cold draft curled around my ankles, and the door clicked shut behind me. I spun, but the handle wouldn’t turn. The air grew heavy, and I felt a pressure at the back of my neck, like someone standing too close.

I pounded on the door, but the wood barely vibrated. Then, a whisper, so faint it was almost a sigh, came from inside the room: ‘You shouldn’t have let us in.’ A chill ran through me. I pressed my ear to the door, and I heard a sound like a drawer sliding open in the bathroom. The cat scratched from the other side, its meow sharp and insistent. I don’t know how long I stood there, my heart hammering. Then the handle turned on its own, and the door swung open, revealing the empty hallway. The cat was gone. I fled the house and didn’t look back.

Later that day, I returned with a priest. He blessed every room, and when we reached my bedroom, he paused. ‘There’s a doorway here,’ he said, pointing to the closet. ‘Not a physical one. It’s been left open. Something came through this morning.’ I asked what it was. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But it’s used to being let in. It might wait for the next time.’ I haven’t slept at home since. I stay at a friend’s place, but every morning at 5:47, I wake to the sound of a door clicking shut somewhere in the house, and a cold, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if something is still waiting for me to come back.