The Door That Went Nowhere

Journal Entry – December 9, 1871

A new door appeared in the hallway outside the parlor — narrow, tall, unpainted, as though carved from a single piece of ash wood still green at the core. I don’t remember it being there yesterday.

Neither do the guests.

When I turned the handle, it wouldn’t open.

The metal was warm beneath my hand, almost pulsing.

I pressed my ear to the wood — and heard breathing.

Not mine.

Not human.

A slow, steady inhalation, followed by a shuddering exhale that made the wallpaper ripple.

The mark on my arm throbbed in answer, and when I stepped back, the door vanished.

Just melted into the wall, leaving no seam.

The house is growing new rooms.

Or shedding old ones.

Either way, it listens to me now.