The Guest Bedroom Door by Anonymous

 

I’ve always hated the way my guest bedroom door closes. It doesn’t latch unless you slam it, and even then, it slowly creeps open like it’s second-guessing the decision. That soft creak used to be annoying. Now it’s something worse.

It started after my sister crashed at my place for a few nights. She was going through a breakup and needed space to think. I gave her the guest room, changed the sheets, cleared the nightstand. I even set up a small white noise machine for her—she’s always had trouble sleeping without sound.

On her second night, around 3 a.m., I heard the door creak open.

Then I heard it slam shut.

I sat up in bed, heart thumping. It was loud enough to shake the wall. I got out of bed and called her name, thinking maybe she’d had a nightmare or needed something.

No answer.

When I opened the door, the hallway was empty. The guest room door was shut.

I knocked. “Ava?”

She answered, but her voice was weird. Not groggy—just… flat.

“I’m okay. Just go to bed.”

The next morning, she was packing her bag like she couldn’t get out fast enough. I asked her what was wrong. She just looked at me and said, “Your guest room is wrong.”

I laughed it off, thinking she was being dramatic. Ava could be sensitive, especially after a breakup. She left by noon, and I didn’t think much of it—until that night.

I woke up around 2:30 a.m. to the sound of that door creaking open again. Only this time, no slam followed.

Just… open.

I grabbed a flashlight and got out of bed. The hallway light was off, and when I stepped out, the air felt colder. Not like air conditioning—cold, damp, like a crawl space.

The door was wide open.

The white noise machine was still going, a soft static hum, but there was something else under it. A whispering. Just below hearing level. You couldn’t catch a word, but the rhythm was there—like someone muttering to themselves in the dark.

I flipped on the light.

The room was empty.

Bed untouched. Nightstand lamp off. But the closet door?

It was open just a crack.

Not wide, just slightly ajar, as if someone was watching me through it.

I stood frozen. Every instinct screamed don’t touch it. But I made myself walk over, heart pounding in my throat. I flung the closet door open.

Nothing inside.

Just coats. Empty boxes.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next day, I removed the door from the hinges. Problem solved. If it couldn’t close, it couldn’t slam. If it couldn’t open, it couldn’t creak.

Right?

That night, I woke up to the sound of it knocking.

Three soft knocks. Not on the doorframe—on the wall where the door used to be.

No one was there. Just the doorway, wide and empty. The room beyond, dark and still.

I tried to go back to sleep.

Then came the whisper.

From right beside my bed.

It said, “You shouldn’t have taken the door.”

I moved out a week later. Found someone on Craigslist to sublet the place. Told myself I imagined it. Stress. Sleep deprivation. Maybe my sister’s anxiety rubbed off on me.

But last night—months later—I got a text from the guy who took the apartment.

It just said:

“Hey… did the guest room door ever knock?”