The Last Door: A Mystery Hidden in Silence
The letter came in a plain gray envelope with no return address, no stamp. Just my name — Thomas Grey — typed in uneven capital letters. Inside was a key and a note: "The house is yours now. Find the door, but only after midnight."
I should have thrown it out. I didn't. Curiosity is a curse.
The house was real — an old three-story brownstone in the heart of New Ashcroft. I'd never heard of the uncle it was supposedly from. No one in my family had. The neighbors said it had been empty for years. Some said longer. Too long.
The Door That Wasn't There
I moved in. Nothing special. Dust. Cobwebs. Cold hallways. I cleaned, explored, unpacked. The basement door was stiff. But behind it — just storage. At least during the day.
The first night, I couldn't sleep. I heard tapping. Very light. Like fingernails. Coming from below. I checked. Nothing. But as I turned to go back upstairs, I saw it.
A new door. In the far left corner of the basement. It hadn’t been there before. I swear. Plain, black wood. No handle. Just a brass keyhole. I tried the key from the envelope. It fit. But I didn’t turn it. Not yet.
Midnight Whispers
For three nights, I stared at the door. At 12:01 AM, it would shimmer faintly. By 3:00 AM, it was gone. Every night. Like clockwork.
On the fourth night, I turned the key.
Silence. Then cold. Deep cold. Not from air. From memory. From something older. The door opened inward into pitch black. I stepped in. My phone light flickered, then died. But I kept walking.
Ten steps in, the door shut behind me. I was blind. Then — voices. Not talking. Whispering. And a smell — lilacs and rot.
What Was Waiting
I found a room. Perfectly round. Mirrors on every wall. But my reflection wasn’t... mine. Same face, but not. Eyes too wide. Smile too still. It moved when I didn’t.
In the center of the room, a chair. A letter on it. My name. Again.
"You opened the last door. You accepted the inheritance. Now you see. Now you belong."
The reflection behind the mirror smiled wider. Then I woke up.
In my bed. In the house. Morning sun pouring through the window. It had to be a dream. Had to be.
Until I went downstairs.
The basement door was open. The mirror room was gone. But on the wall? My name. Carved into the wood.
And below it: "Welcome home, Thomas."
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