The Unlatched Door

I’ve lived in this old farmhouse on the outskirts of Maple Hollow for three years now. The town folk like to say it’s ‘characterful’, but they don’t know the half of it. I’ve seen things – a flicker of movement in the hallway, a whisper of a name when no one’s there – but I’ve never been truly scared. My neighbors call me ‘the unshakeable one’ because I walked through a barn fire as a kid and didn’t flinch. So it shames me to admit, these past weeks, I’ve been sleeping with the lights on.

This house has a history. The original owner, old Man Withers, died in a fire here in the 1950s. My aunt claimed she’d see his silhouette at the foot of her bed, smoking a pipe. My cousin Jason, back when he was six, would stare at a corner of the living room, eyes wide, and whisper, ‘He’s standing right there, don’t you see him?’ But this was all distant, harmless lore. Then things started to change.

I’m alone here from Monday to Friday, my work as a remote archivist keeping me tethered to this creaking relic. The oddities began small: a kitchen cabinet left ajar, a book misplaced on my shelf. But then the attic door became a fixation. Every night, I’d check the latch, push it firmly shut, even wedged a chair against it. Yet regardless, within hours, the door would be open again, a dark gap yawning at the top of the stairs, the chair shoved aside. My family begged me to get out, but I’m stubborn. I told them it was the wind, the house settling.

Then my bedroom started betraying me. I’m meticulous. Everything has its place: my vintage camera collection on the dresser, my grandmother’s quilt folded at the foot of my bed. I’d leave for work, and when I returned, the room would be chaos. The drawers yanked out, clothes strewn like a demon had thrown a tantrum, the curtains torn from their rods. This went beyond mischief. I installed cameras. Every morning, the footage showed the same thing: the room would be pristine, and then, at the exact moment I wasn’t looking, a blur would sweep through, and the destruction would happen in mere seconds. The cameras never captured a clear image, just a distortion.

Last night, I was exhausted, sprawled on the couch, watching an old sitcom. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge. Then, clear as a bell, a voice purred in my ear, ‘Hey there, Cora.’ I thought it was the TV, but the sound wasn’t coming from it – it was too close, too intimate. I froze, my heart pounding. I turned my head slowly; the room was empty. But then, from the attic, I heard a low, rhythmic pounding. It was coming from inside the wall. I stared at the ceiling, my breath held. The voice came again, giggling this time, ‘I see you, Cora. And I’m so lonely up here.’

I should have run, but I did something stupid. I climbed the stairs to the attic door, which was, of course, slightly ajar. The air grew cold, and a faint smell of smoke and rot filled my nose. I reached for the door handle, but it was ice-cold, and I felt a resistance. In the dark beyond, I saw two pinpricks of light, like eyes, and I heard a whisper so low it seemed to come from inside my skull: ‘Let me out, Cora. I’ve been waiting so long.’ I slammed the door and slid the deadbolt. I’ve been holed up in my bedroom since, the lights on, a knife in my hand. I can still hear footsteps above me, pacing, waiting. I don’t know what I’ve unleashed, but I know one thing: I’m not brave. I’m just a girl in an old house with an unlatched door.