The Room That Shouldn’t Exist

When Emma inherited her aunt’s old Victorian house, she expected to find creaky floors, dusty furniture, and maybe a few odd antiques. What she didn’t expect was the locked door at the end of the upstairs hallway—a door that wasn’t on the house’s original blueprints.

She found the key in a box of her aunt’s belongings, marked with a single note: “Do not open.”

That only made her more curious.

By the third night, curiosity got the better of her. Standing in front of the door, key trembling in her hand, Emma told herself it was just a room. No big deal.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Inside was… nothing.

The room was empty. The walls were bare, painted a sickly gray. The air was heavy, cold, and carried a faint, metallic smell. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting weak light over the floorboards.

“Really? That’s it?” Emma muttered, stepping inside.

As she crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped sharply. The door slammed shut behind her.

Emma spun around and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. “Okay, not funny!” she called, though she knew no one else was there.

A faint sound echoed through the room—whispers, low and unintelligible.

“Hello?” she called, her voice shaking.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping and circling her like a swarm of invisible bees. She pressed her hands over her ears, but the voices slipped through.

“Leave.”
“Get out.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”

Emma stumbled back, her breathing ragged. Her flashlight flickered, casting shifting shadows on the walls.

That’s when she saw it.

The walls weren’t blank. They were covered in words, scratched deeply into the plaster. Some were names, others were warnings. “Help me.” “Don’t stay.” “It’s watching.”

Her flashlight went out completely, plunging her into darkness.

Then came the footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, and impossibly heavy. They echoed through the room, though she couldn’t see a thing.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, backing against the wall.

The footsteps stopped. The whispers fell silent.

And then, right next to her ear, a voice rasped: “You shouldn’t have opened the door.”

Emma screamed, fumbling with her phone for any light. The dim glow illuminated the room for a moment, and she saw it—something standing in the corner.

It was tall, its figure gaunt and twisted, with hollow eyes that glowed faintly. Its mouth stretched into a jagged grin, filled with teeth that didn’t look human.

Emma bolted for the door, pounding on it desperately. “Let me out!”

The creature moved closer, its movements slow but deliberate. Its grin widened as it reached for her.

At the last second, the door flew open, and Emma tumbled into the hallway. She scrambled to her feet and slammed the door shut, locking it with trembling hands.

The whispers stopped.

Emma backed away, her heart pounding. She didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she nailed the door shut and left the house for good. But no matter how far she went, she swore she could still hear the whispers. And sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she saw the grin.