The Vermilion Door

We moved into the old farmhouse in the autumn of ’96, when the fields around it were a patchwork of rust and gold. My father had inherited it from a distant uncle, a man we’d never met, and it came with a land agent’s note warning that the property had been vacant for nearly two decades. I was nine, my sister Elsie was seven, and little Maisie was barely three, so the whole adventure felt like a game. Our mother saw it as a fresh start, far from the city’s noise. The house was a sprawling, two-storey structure with a wrap-around porch and a barn out back that leaned like a drunkard. But what drew my eye on that first day was a door on the ground floor, off the main hallway, painted a deep, glossy vermilion. It was the only painted door in the house; all the others were plain, varnished wood. My father said it probably led to an old pantry or a root cellar, but when he tried the brass knob, it wouldn’t budge. Locked. He shrugged, saying he’d locate the key later, but he never did. And for the first few weeks, that door just sat there, silent and unremarkable, a splash of color in a dreary house.

Then one evening, about a month in, I was reading on the sitting room floor while Elsie played with her dolls nearby. Our mother was in the kitchen, which was directly across the hall from that vermilion door, and I could hear the murmur of her phone conversation through the wall. It was just past eight, and the hall was dim, lit only by a weak bulb. I heard a creak, not from the floorboards but from the door itself, as if its hinges were sighing. I looked up, and the door was slowly swinging open, just a few inches. A wedge of blackness widened. Then it creaked again and swung shut, but not fully; it remained ajar, a sliver of dark. I waited, my heart doing a little stutter-step. The wind? But the windows were shut, and the house was still. I went back to my book, but my eyes kept darting to that gap. Then it opened again, wider this time, maybe halfway, and stayed there. I could see a floor of dark tiles, and faintly, a pattern of something red on them, like dried paint. I got up, intending to close it, but just as I reached for the knob, it swung shut on its own, with a soft click. I stood there for a moment, then went back to reading, telling myself it was drafts.

But the door didn’t stop there. Over the next weeks, it became a fixture of my evenings. Every night, around the same time, it would open and close on its own, sometimes just a crack, sometimes all the way. Our mother thought it was the old house settling, but I knew better. One night, I decided to investigate while it was open. I stepped closer and peeked inside. The room beyond was not a pantry. It was a small bathroom, with a clawfoot tub, a pedestal sink, and a mirror that was so tarnished it looked like it had been burned. The tiles were black and white, and on the floor, in the center, was a large, dark stain that could have been rust. But the oddest thing was the sink. The taps were turned on, and a thin stream of water was running, spiraling down the drain. I reached in to turn them off, but the water was icy cold. As my fingers touched the tap, the door slammed shut, knocking me back. I heard a giggle from inside, high and thin, like a child’s voice, but not from my sisters. I ran to the kitchen, but our mother was still on the phone, her back to me. She didn’t hear a thing.

That night, I told Elsie about the giggle. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, ‘It’s the lady in red. She lives behind the red door.’ I asked what she meant, but she just shook her head and wouldn’t say more. I tried to dismiss it as Elsie’s imagination, but then I noticed Elsie would sometimes stand in the hallway, staring at that door, her lips moving silently.

The incidents escalated. One evening, I was in the hallway, lacing my boots, when the door opened a few inches and a small, red rubber ball rolled out, stopping at my feet. It was wet, and it left a dark, oily smear on the floorboards. I picked it up, and the door creaked wider, as if inviting me to return it. I stepped forward, and the ball slipped from my fingers, bouncing into the room. I didn’t go in, but I heard a splash from inside, like something heavy had hit the water of the tub.

Then, a few nights later, I woke to the sound of running water. I crept downstairs, and the hallway was lit by a pale glow coming from under the vermilion door. I pressed my ear to the wood and heard a woman’s voice, low and soothing, humming a lullaby I didn’t recognize. I put my hand on the knob, and it was ice cold. My breath misted. The humming stopped, and a voice whispered, ‘Let me out.’ I jumped back, my heart pounding. I ran to my parents’ room, but my father was snoring, and my mother was asleep too. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my father I wanted to open the door. He laughed, saying it was probably just old pipes and draft. But when he tried the knob, it was unlocked. He swung it open, revealing not a bathroom, but a dusty storage room, filled with boxes and an old push mower. There was no tub, no sink, no mirror. The floor was concrete, and there was a single bare bulb hanging from a wire. I was stunned. ‘See? Nothing to be scared of,’ Dad said, and he went back to his coffee.

But that night, the door was painted red again, and it was locked. The running water came back, and the whispering. I knew I had to do something. I waited until my family was asleep, then I took a crowbar from the barn and pried the door open. The room inside was the bathroom again, but now it was flooded. The water was up to my ankles, dark and cold, and the mirror showed a reflection of a woman in a red dress standing behind me. I spun around, but there was no one. In the reflection, I saw her smile, and she pointed at the tub. The water in the tub was swirling, and something small and white bobbed to the surface. It was a child’s tooth.

I fled the house, running into the fields, and I didn’t stop until I reached the main road, where I stayed until dawn. When I returned, the door was back to its normal, rusted, unpainted wood. My parents never noticed anything unusual, but I refused to sleep in that house again. We left the following week, moving back to the city. I never told them what I saw. But to this day, I can’t see a red door without hearing the sound of running water, or a faint giggle, and I know she’s still in there, waiting for another child to come and find her.