When Louise and I finally moved into our new home, it felt like a dream come true. No more worrying about rent, no more cramped apartments—we finally had space to grow, to start a family, to build a future. We were thrilled. The house was everything we’d hoped for, and we immediately began making renovations to make it feel like ours.
But there was one room Louise wouldn’t touch. The second bathroom near our bedroom.
“Connor, please respect my privacy and don’t go in there,” she told me gently one morning. I laughed at first, thinking she was being dramatic. But her tone made it clear—she was serious. I loved and trusted her, so I let it go.
At first.
Weeks passed. Then months. I’d ask occasionally, but she’d always change the subject. She kept it locked. Late at night, I’d hear her in there—sometimes for nearly an hour. Once, I thought I heard whispering. The mystery of it gnawed at me. I became obsessed with what could possibly be behind that door.
Then one night, when Louise had drifted off to sleep beside me, I made my move. I had found the spare key days earlier. My curiosity had finally won.
The door creaked as I opened it.
The room was spotless. Empty. Too clean. But in the corner, just above the floor, I saw it—a small hole in the wall, glowing faintly red. The light felt… unnatural. Drawn to it, I knelt down and looked inside.
Eyes. Dozens of them. Staring back at me.
Red. Unblinking. Watching.
I staggered back, breath caught in my throat. Then I heard her behind me.
“Connor. Why are you here?”
I turned. Louise stood in the doorway, face pale, eyes unreadable.
“I was… just washing my hands,” I lied.
She sighed, closing the door behind her. “Now that you’ve seen it, there’s no going back.”
I demanded answers. She sat down and began to explain.
Her family had guarded the secret for generations. The hole wasn’t just a hole—it was a gateway. A connection to something not of this world. Something buried beneath the house. Something ancient. Watching.
“They don’t come through,” she said, “unless someone breaks the rules.”
The red glow pulsed. The floor rumbled. The wall cracked.
“They’re awake now,” she whispered.
Something reached through the wall—black, clawed, unnatural.
“We have to go!” I shouted, grabbing her hand.
She pulled away. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. If I stay, I can hold them… for now.”
“No. I’m not leaving you.”
“There’s a journal in the attic,” she said. “My grandfather’s. It might show you how to end this.”
The wall burst open.
She turned to face it.
The door slammed shut behind me.
I never saw her again.
But I know one thing: if you ever find yourself in an old house with a locked door no one talks about…
don’t open it.
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