The Open Door - horror

The cabin was supposed to be a quiet getaway, nestled deep in the woods where cell service didn’t exist, and the outside world felt like a distant memory. A place for Clare and Rachel to reset after months of burnout.

They arrived just before sunset, arms full of groceries and bags, joking about the weekend ahead. The cabin creaked as the wind picked up, but Clare brushed it off. It was old. Old buildings creak.

By nightfall, the wind howled, shaking the windows in their frames. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the living room. Rachel was curled up on the couch with a book, while Clare poked at the fire.

The sound came softly at first: a faint thud from the other side of the house. Clare froze, poker in hand.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

Rachel looked up, frowning. “Hear what?"

Clare turned, the poker still clutched tightly. “A thud. Like… something moving.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “It’s an old cabin. Things settle. Probably just the wind.”

Clare didn’t reply. She set the poker down and grabbed her flashlight. “I’m going to check it out.”

The house was colder in the hallway. Clare’s breath misted in the beam of her flashlight as she stepped carefully, the wood groaning underfoot. She passed the bedrooms, each door closed tight, and paused at the door leading to the cellar.

It was open.

A crack, no more than a few inches, but open nonetheless.

She stared at it, her pulse quickening. “Hey, has that door always been open?”

From the living room, Rachel’s voice drifted back, confused. “…I thought you opened it.”

Clare’s stomach dropped.

"No," she whispered.

The fire popped in the other room, and the shadows on the walls seemed to grow longer, darker. Clare reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the door. It felt… wrong. Colder than the air around it, almost as if the wood itself was radiating chill.

“Clare?” Rachel called, her voice tighter now.

Clare pushed the door open slowly.

The beam of her flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating narrow wooden stairs that led down into the cellar. The air smelled damp, metallic.

“Clare, don’t—” Rachel’s footsteps hurried into the hallway. She stopped behind Clare, peering over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Rachel whispered, her voice trembling.

Clare didn’t answer. Something about the cellar called to her—a soft, insistent pull at the edges of her mind. The beam of light wavered as her hand shook.

Then she saw it.

At the bottom of the stairs, just barely visible, something moved.

A shape, hunched and wrong, melted into the darkness. It didn’t make a sound, but Clare could feel it watching her.

“We’re leaving,” Rachel said, gripping Clare’s arm.

Clare didn’t argue.

Back in the living room, they bolted the cellar door shut and pushed the couch in front of it for good measure.

“What the hell was that?” Rachel demanded, pacing the room.

“I don’t know,” Clare admitted. Her voice shook. “But it wasn’t supposed to be here.”

As they argued in hushed whispers, a faint sound reached them.

Thud.

Thud.

It was coming from beneath their feet.

The thuds grew louder, more insistent, until it wasn’t just a sound—it was a vibration. The cabin floor trembled as if something massive was slamming against the cellar door.

Rachel grabbed Clare’s arm. “We need to go. Now.”

Clare nodded, grabbing the car keys off the table.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the car. As they sped down the dirt road, neither dared to look back.

When they finally reached the safety of town, they filed a report with the local sheriff. He frowned as they told their story, but his expression darkened when they mentioned the cabin’s location.

“You’re sure it was that cabin?” he asked.

Clare and Rachel nodded.

The sheriff leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “That place burned down ten years ago.”

Rachel froze. “No. We stayed there. We saw it. We—”

“You’re mistaken,” the sheriff said firmly. “There’s nothing there but ruins.”

Clare and Rachel left the station in silence.

They never returned to the woods. But sometimes, late at night, Clare dreams of the cellar door—of the thing that waited behind it.

In her dreams, the door isn’t shut anymore.