The Unlatched Door

May 30, 2019

by Jillian

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (599 words)

"On the first Tuesday of June, I went over to Mrs. Albright’s place, a sturdy Victorian house sitting at the end of Maple Lane, because she’d called saying she needed a hand with some chores. I crossed the quiet street, knocked on the heavy oak door, and let myself in with a cheerful announcement so […]"

On the first Tuesday of June, I went over to Mrs. Albright’s place, a sturdy Victorian house sitting at the end of Maple Lane, because she’d called saying she needed a hand with some chores. I crossed the quiet street, knocked on the heavy oak door, and let myself in with a cheerful announcement so she wouldn’t be startled.

I found her in the sunroom, which doubled as her bedroom, perched in a floral armchair with a quilt over her lap. ‘Ah, there you are, dear,’ she said, her voice a dry rustle. ‘Could you make up the bed in the guest room and then do mine? I’ve been feeling achy.’ I nodded and set to work, tucking sheets and smoothing comforters until both beds were crisp and neat, just the way she liked them.

After that, she asked me to put away her summer clothes in the walnut wardrobe and stack the folded towels in the linen closet off the hallway bathroom. I carried the towels, a soft mountain of lavender and white, and as I entered the bathroom, I pulled the door most of the way shut, a habit I had to keep the space private. I opened the closet, slid the towels onto the shelf, and was about to close it when I heard a faint click. Slowly, the bathroom door swung open on its own, as if pushed by an unseen hand.

I stood frozen, the closet door still in my grip. The hallway beyond was dim and still, and I could hear Mrs. Albright humming something tuneless in the sunroom. I called out, ‘Everything okay?’ but she didn’t respond. I took a step, pushed the door shut again, and latched it firmly. But as I turned back to the closet, the latch gave a soft pop, and the door edged open once more, just a crack. A chill crept up my spine.

I finished hastily and moved to the kitchen, where Mrs. Albright had left a list of small tasks taped to the fridge. As I wiped down the counters, I noticed the back door, which led to the overgrown garden, was slightly ajar. ‘The lock’s been sticky,’ she’d said earlier, ‘but it should hold.’ I tried to latch it, but the mechanism was stubborn, and the door wouldn’t catch. I jiggled it and managed to force it closed.

By late afternoon, the day’s errands were done. I gathered my things and headed for the front entrance, but the knob wouldn’t turn at all—it was jammed tight. I tried the deadbolt, which slid smoothly, then the handle again, nothing. I rattled it, and just as I was about to call for help, the door popped open, swinging inward with a soft groan. A gust of cold air rushed past me, and I stumbled back, heart pounding. Mrs. Albright called from the other room, ‘Did you get it, dear? The latch sometimes sticks.’ I swallowed and stepped outside, closing the door behind me. As I walked down the porch steps, I glanced back and saw the front door still open, the dark hallway swallowing the light.

I hurried home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been in that house with us, something that had toyed with every lock and latch, waiting for me to leave. I haven’t gone back since, though Mrs. Albright calls often, asking when I’ll help again. Each time I tell her I’m busy, and each time I hear, beneath her voice, the faint sound of a door unlatching in the background.

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