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The Door That Never Opens

📖 Genre: Psychological Thriller / Horror


The Rainfall Room

It rained so hard that even the trees looked like they were drowning.

Arav stood at the edge of the narrow road, his jacket soaked through, the hood of his backpack heavy with water. The town, if it could be called that, was more of a scattered memory than a settlement. Five or six wooden buildings slumped against the hillside, fog coiling around them like breath. The sky had been leaking for three days without pause.

He had booked the room online. Mountain View Lodge. It had two reviews, both from 2015. One said, “Remote and peaceful.” The other said nothing—just one star and a photo of a foggy window.

The caretaker met him at the door with a lantern.

“You came in this rain?” the man asked, as if surprised Arav hadn’t drowned.

“I had to get away,” Arav replied, his voice swallowed by the storm behind him.

The caretaker didn’t ask anything more.

The lobby smelled like old paper and paraffin. The wooden floor groaned with every step. A brass key—yes, an actual key—was handed to him.

Room 12.

He paused. “Is there no Room 11?”

The caretaker looked up sharply, then forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“No sir. Not anymore.”

The hallway was narrow and badly lit. Faint yellow bulbs flickered overhead, and the walls were lined with faded photographs of the hills before the dam was built. The air was damp. Cold. Like something had been breathing here a long time before Arav arrived.

Room 12 was at the very end of the corridor.He unlocked the door. It creaked open.

Inside: a bed with a sunken mattress, a round mirror on the opposite wall, and a small window that faced a wall of trees. No TV. No Wi-Fi. Just the rain, hammering down like nails.

He liked it.It was perfect for disappearing.

That night, the electricity died. Around 2:30 a.m., Arav was awoken by a sound. Not thunder. Not wind.

Footsteps.

Above him.

He sat up slowly. The ceiling groaned faintly.But he had seen the lodge from outside. There was no upper floor.He got out of bed, opened the door to the hallway. Darkness.

No one. Just the faint hum of rain and a silence that seemed to stare back.As he turned to re-enter his room, his foot slid slightly on something wet.

He looked down.

Footprints.

Wet, barefoot, small. Like a child’s. Leading from nowhere. And stopping right at his door.

In the morning, the caretaker offered him tea without looking at him directly.

“Did... anyone else check in yesterday?” Arav asked.

The man shook his head. “You’re the only guest, sir. You’ll have peace.”

Arav stirred the tea. “What’s behind the locked door next to mine?”

The caretaker stiffened. “Room 11 is not used anymore.”

“But why?” Arav asked, his tone neutral.

The caretaker took a long breath.

“Some doors should remain closed,” he said, placing the tray down. “Especially in this weather.”The rain didn’t stop. The power didn’t return.

By the second night, Arav had grown used to the darkness. He lit a candle and wrote in his journal. The silence helped.

Until the footsteps came again.

This time, slower. Deliberate.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Right above him.

He stared at the ceiling.

The mirror on the opposite wall shimmered strangely in the candlelight. He stood up. Walked to it.

For a moment, he thought he saw something else in the reflection. Not his own face. But something leaning in the far corner of the room.

Something damp.

He turned sharply.

Nothing.

He decided to test the hallway. The footprints were there again. This time leading away from his door. Right to Room 11.

He stood in front of it. The brass number was rusted. The door was locked tight. But the handle... felt warm.

He leaned closer. He didn’t knock.

He listened.For a second, he could have sworn he heard something on the other side. A soft hum. Like someone whispering... or crying.

Then—A tap on the glass behind him.He turned. The hallway window—fogged up.And on the inside of the glass...a handprint.

Arav returned to his room, heart thudding louder than the rain outside. He didn’t sleep that night. He watched the door. The candle flickered. Shadows moved oddly.

When morning came, the sky was still grey.He went downstairs. The caretaker was gone. No note. No one at the desk.

Only the guestbook sat open. Its pages blank. Except for one faded line written in shaky blue ink:

> “Room 11 is listening.”




                    The Lonely Pen By Aj 



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Location: India

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