The Wrong Door

The old lighthouse keeper’s cottage had been my sanctuary for three months, a place where the wind hummed through the cracks and the sea gnawed at the cliff below. My two dogs, Brutus and Juno, slept at the foot of my bed, their breathing a low, rhythmic counterpoint to the distant waves. I had grown comfortable there, lulled by the isolation, convinced that the earlier visions were nothing more than exhaustion from the move. The first time I saw her, she had been a silhouette at the edge of the bed, her form shifting like morning fog, but she had vanished before I could react. I dismissed it. I was wrong.

On that Tuesday night, I returned from a long walk along the shore, the salt spray stinging my cheeks, and retired early, the dogs curling up beside me with a resigned grumble. I fell asleep to the tick of the wall clock, a relic from the previous keeper, and the steady rhythm of the tide. I dreamed of nothing—an empty blackness—until a faint creak, the sound of the bedroom door swinging open, tugged me from sleep. The hinges moaned like a wounded animal, and I cracked my eyes open, expecting the silhouette of a dog or the draft of wind.

Instead, a voice—familiar yet wrong—floated from the doorway. It was my husband, Thomas, though he was a thousand miles away on a research ship in the Arctic. His voice was mellifluous, almost hypnotic: ‘Come, darling, let’s have a drink on the patio. The moon is full, and the stars are out.’ I sat up, confusion battling with irritation. The dogs, usually alert to any intrusion, were silent, their heads buried under their paws. My blood chilled. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and as my feet touched the cold wood, the shadow in the doorway shifted.

It wasn’t Thomas. It wore his voice, but the form was blurred, like a photograph left in the rain. The edges of its body dissolved into the darkness, and where its face should have been, there was a swirling emptiness that seemed to drink the light. My heart hammered, and I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came. The figure tilted its head, and then, with a wet, crackling sound, it began to walk toward me. Each step left a faint, greasy smear on the floorboards, like the trail of a snail. The dogs remained frozen, their eyes rolled back, showing only white.

I scrambled backward, knocking over a bedside lamp, and the crash broke the spell. The dogs exploded into a frenzy of barking, lunging at the figure, but their jaws passed through it as if it were smoke. The thing laughed—Thomas’s laugh, warm and familiar—yet dripping with malice. ‘No need for that,’ it said, its voice now layered, a chorus of whispers beneath the surface. ‘I only wanted to offer you a drink.’ It extended a hand, and from its palm, a dark liquid dripped, sizzling where it met the floor.

I bolted for the door, my legs clumsy with fear. I tore through the living room, knocking over furniture, and yanked open the front door, expecting the cool night air. Instead, I found myself standing in a corridor of darkness, lined with doors—hundreds of them, all identical, all slightly ajar. My own bedroom door stood behind me, still open, and from it, the voice called, ‘Which one is yours, my dear? This is the fun part.’ Each door creaked open in unison, and from each one, a figure stepped out—my husband, Thomas, but all wrong: one missing an eye, one with skin like cracked leather, one whose smile stretched too wide. They all spoke in unison, ‘Join us for a drink.’

I screamed, and suddenly I was back on my bed, drenched in sweat. Brutus and Juno were licking my face, whimpering. The room was still, the clock ticking. I checked the door—it was closed, locked. I told myself it was a nightmare, a vivid delusion from isolation. But then I saw the floor near the doorway: a faint, sticky residue, black and viscous, glistening in the moonlight. My hand trembled as I touched it, and it came away cold, and I heard the whisper from the walls, soft and amused: ‘Not yet, but soon.’ Now, as the sun rises, I keep the lights on, and my dogs refuse to sleep anywhere but on my chest, growling at the air. The figure hasn’t returned, but I know she’s waiting—behind one of the thousand doors, waiting for the moment my guard drops.

I don’t know how long I can keep this up, especially since she learned to mimic the ones I love. Last night, I heard my own voice from the bedroom, asking myself if I wanted a drink. I didn’t answer. I won’t. I can’t.