I SAW MY NAME ON THE DOOR WHEN I ENTERED THE ABANDONED HOUSE
The door creaked open, revealing nothing but dust motes dancing in a single shaft of sunlight. A strange, sickly sweet perfume, like forgotten flowers left to rot, hung heavy and cloying in the stagnant air, thick enough to taste on my tongue. I stepped inside, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird, each frantic beat echoing in the profound, suffocating silence. “Hello? Is anyone here?” my voice cracked, thin and small, swallowed by the emptiness. Nothing responded but the muffled whisper of the wind outside, rattling loose panes.
Then, from deeper within the crumbling structure, a faint, rhythmic scratching sound began, insistent and chilling, like claws on old wood, pulling me further in. I followed it, past overturned, skeletal furniture and shards of broken glass that crunched loudly under my boots, until I reached a closed, heavy door at the very end of the long, dark hall. There, scrawled in thick, black paint that looked fresh, was my full name, unmistakable, dripping slightly down the warped wood.
My hand trembled violently, slick with sweat, as I slowly pushed the door open, revealing only oppressive, absolute darkness inside, a deeper void. But then a single, ancient television flickered to life in the furthest corner, its screen displaying a blurry, static-filled image of my own living room window, zoomed in, as if filmed just moments ago, right through my curtains. “You shouldn’t be here,” a hollow voice, raspy and frighteningly close, echoed from right behind me, too near.
A hand, cold and clammy, clamped over my mouth from behind.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The world dissolved into a symphony of panic. I struggled, kicking out blindly, my arms flailing uselessly against the unseen attacker. The hand on my mouth muffled my desperate gasps, the putrid scent of decay clinging to it. My vision swam, the static on the television screen seeming to writhe and pulsate with a malevolent energy.
Suddenly, the grip tightened. A sharp, excruciating pain pierced my shoulder, searing through my shirt and flesh. I screamed, a muffled, gargled sound, as something – a needle? a claw? – dug deep. The world began to spin faster, the oppressive darkness of the doorway bleeding into the hall, into everything. I felt myself being dragged backward, away from the door, further into the unknown.
Then, just as darkness threatened to consume me completely, my foot struck something hard. A small, heavy object tumbled out of my pocket. I scrambled to grab it, my fingers fumbling wildly. It was a small, antique music box, a gift from my grandmother. With a surge of adrenaline, I managed to flip the latch.
The music box chimed, a bright, tinkling melody suddenly piercing the suffocating silence. The hand on my mouth faltered, the grip loosening. The scratching sound, the hollow voice, the static-filled image on the television screen… everything seemed to waver, to weaken, as the music filled the air.
I took a desperate breath, twisting and wrenching myself free from the attacker’s grasp. Turning, I swung the music box, connecting with something solid. A gasp, a choked cry. Then, silence.
The oppressive weight lifted. I stumbled back, heart hammering, gasping for air. The hand was gone. The pain in my shoulder throbbed, but I was alive. I could see.
In the flickering light of the television, I saw a figure slumped in the corner of the hall. A grotesque parody of a person, its features obscured by shadow, its clothes tattered and torn. Its hand, still outstretched, clutched a rusted scalpel.
I backed away, the music box still clutched in my hand, its melody a fragile shield against the encroaching darkness. I stumbled over the broken furniture, my gaze fixed on the monster. As I got to the front door, I turned back to see it was gone.
The sunlight that poured in from the now-open door felt like a blessing. I fled, sprinting into the street, never looking back. I never went back to the house. I knew I would never be the same. The door closed with a final creak. The house was silent, waiting for its next victim. The music box, that night, stayed in the pocket of my pajama, so I wouldn’t ever feel the same fear again. I knew, I wasn’t alone.