Liam stared at the red door again.
It never moved during the day. Just sat there—mute, harmless. But every night at 3:00 a.m., it came alive.
Last night, it wasn't just knocking.
It whispered.
He'd heard it clearly.
A voice, low and ragged, had called his name from beneath the gap:
"Liaaam…"
He hadn't imagined it. He couldn't have.
Now, it was 2:58 a.m. and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his clock, waiting.
Why?
Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was curiosity.
Tick.
2:59.
He got up. Slowly walked to the hallway.
3:00.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three knocks—same rhythm, same pause between each. Like a coded message only he was supposed to understand.
But tonight, he didn't wait.
He stepped closer.
The red door had no handle. No way to open it. But as he raised his hand to touch the wood—
Cold.
The surface was freezing. Icy breath hissed through the cracks. And then, again, the voice:
"It's open… now…"
Suddenly, something scratched from the inside.
Fast. Desperate.
He stumbled back.
Was it trying to get out? Or trying to pull him in?
He ran back to his room and slammed the door shut. Locked it. Pushed the dresser in front.
He didn't sleep.
But in the silence, he heard one more whisper.
This time, inside his room:
"You opened it…"
The red door is no longer just watching. It's listening. It's learning.
And it knows he's afraid.