The Yellow Door

I was six when I learned that some doors should never be opened. Our school, a sprawling collection of prefab huts connected by covered walkways, sat on the edge of a pine forest that seemed to swallow the afternoon light. My classroom was in Hut C, a squat gray box with a faded number stenciled above the door. The music room was in Hut F, the farthest from the main office, and it had a peculiar feature: a small, windowless storage closet at the back, painted a sickly yellow. The door was always kept shut, and the handle was a dull brass that felt oddly cold to the touch. Mrs. Alvarez, our music teacher, a plump woman with a kind smile and a habit of humming off-key, never once opened it in our presence. ‘That’s just where I keep the broken instruments,’ she’d say when a curious kid asked, but her eyes would flicker to the door and she’d quickly change the subject.

One Tuesday afternoon, our regular class was over, and Mrs. Alvarez had stepped out to confer with another teacher in the adjacent hut. She left us with a stern promise: ‘Stay in your seats, do the worksheet on your desk, and do not touch anything.’ But my best friend, Miguel, was a daredevil. As soon as she was out of sight, he crept to the back of the room and pressed his ear to the yellow door. ‘I think I hear something,’ he whispered, his eyes wide. ‘Like a scratching.’ I joined him, and indeed, there was a faint, rhythmic sound, as if something was dragging its nails across the other side. ‘It’s probably just a mouse,’ I said, but my heart was hammering. Miguel turned the handle, and the door swung inward with a long, weary creak. The closet was empty, not even a dusty shelf. But on the floor, in the center, was a single, small, white object: a child’s sock, crumpled and gray with dust.

We both stared. ‘That’s weird,’ I said. Miguel picked it up. It was damp, and the fabric had a strange, sticky residue that made him drop it with a yelp. As it hit the floor, the door suddenly slammed shut on its own, the sound echoing in the quiet room. We both jumped back, my skin prickling. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I urged, but Miguel was frozen, his eyes fixed on the door. ‘There’s something written,’ he said. And there was, scratched into the paint near the handle, in uneven letters: ‘DON’T LET THEM SING.’

A chill ran down my spine. Mrs. Alvarez returned a minute later, found us huddled near the door, and her face went pale. ‘What were you doing?’ she demanded, her voice tight. Miguel pointed at the door. ‘There’s a writing,’ he said. She looked, and her expression shifted from anger to something like fear. She quickly herded us to the front, made us sit, and didn’t say another word for the rest of class. But as we were filing out, I saw her reach out and trace the letters with her finger, then touch her lips as if to hush something.

The next day, Miguel didn’t come to school. I heard the teacher whisper to a colleague that his family had ‘moved away suddenly.’ But I knew better. That afternoon, I was playing alone near the edge of the playground, close to the pine trees, and I saw a figure among the trunks. It was a small child, about my height, wearing a white shirt that was stained dark at the hem. Its face was too pale, its eyes were hollow, and its mouth was open in a silent, drawn-out wail. It raised one hand, and in its palm was the same damp sock. Then it tilted its head and pointed toward the music building. I turned to run, but when I looked back, it was gone.

I didn’t tell anyone for years. But now, at twenty, I’ve come back to that school, which is abandoned, to finally face what I saw. The huts are still there, gray and rotting, and the pine forest has crept closer. The music building door is ajar. I push it open. The room is bare, dusty, but the yellow closet door is still there, and the writing is still visible: ‘DON’T LET THEM SING.’ My hand trembles as I grasp the handle. It opens easily. Inside, the closet is not empty this time. There are rows of small, white, child-sized socks, all crumpled and damp, lining the walls like a macabre collection. And in the center, on the floor, lies Miguel’s body, perfectly preserved, his eyes open and staring, his lips sealed with a black, tar-like substance. And I realize the scratching sound I heard as a child was not from behind the door. It was from inside my own chest, where a splinter of this place had taken root. I haven’t stopped hearing it since. And tonight, the door in my own closet is starting to creak open, and I can smell the damp, and feel the cold, and I know that this time, the sock is for me.