THE SECOND DOOR

When Mara inherited her grandmother’s remote farmhouse, she saw it as a quiet escape from the noise of the city. The house was old but charming—creaky floorboards, dusty lace curtains, and an odd silence that seemed to press in on her from the moment she crossed the threshold.

On her first night, Mara explored the house by flashlight, noting every locked door. There was one in particular, at the end of the upstairs hall, that intrigued her. Heavy oak, iron latch, no keyhole. Her grandmother never spoke of it.

Curiosity got the best of her by the third night.

At 3:13 AM, she woke to a sound—a faint knocking. Not at the front door. Not from outside. From behind that door.

She crept toward it barefoot, the cold floor biting at her soles. The knocking stopped as she neared.

She pressed her ear against the door.

Breathing.

She stumbled back, heart racing, but the house fell silent. Convinced she imagined it, she returned to bed. But at exactly 3:13 AM the next night, the knocking resumed.

This time, she spoke: “Who’s there?”

A pause.

Then a whisper.

“Let me out… I remember you.”

The next morning, she searched the house for a key. In the attic, she found a dusty trunk full of old photographs—some of her as a child, some of her grandmother... and one photo of Mara, maybe six years old, standing outside the farmhouse. Next to her was another girl—identical in every way.

On the back, scribbled in faded ink:
“Mara & Mira – summer, 1997. Only one was supposed to stay.”

She never opened the door.
But the knocking still comes.
And the voice is getting closer.