“The Second Door”

 “The Second Door”

People in town said the old Greystone House was cursed, but I didn’t believe in curses—until I stepped inside.

I was there to photograph abandoned buildings for my portfolio. The house was crumbling, overtaken by ivy, windows like empty eyes. The air inside smelled like mold and something older—something dead.

Everything was still. Quiet. I snapped a few photos, working my way through the main hall and into the back rooms. That’s when I saw it—a second door on the far side of the kitchen, one that didn’t match the architecture. It looked new. Untouched. A deadbolt sealed it tight from this side.

Curious, I unlatched it.

The door opened into a staircase that descended into pitch black. I should’ve left, but I had my flashlight. And stupid pride.

The stairs groaned under me. At the bottom was a narrow hallway with walls that pulsed slightly, like they were breathing. At the end was another door—identical to the first.

I opened it and froze.

It was my apartment on the other side.

Same cracked tile in the kitchen. Same crooked picture frame. Same coffee mug I left in the sink this morning. But... I wasn’t home.

Someone else was.

A woman. Standing at the window, back turned. Same clothes as me. Same hair. Same height.

She turned around.
And she had my face.
But her eyes were all wrong—pupil-less, milky white, like dead fish floating in a pond.

She opened her mouth and said, “I was wondering when you'd finally open the door.”

I ran.

I sprinted back through the hallway, up the stairs, slammed the first door shut, bolted it, and didn’t stop running until I was outside, gasping for breath in the daylight.

I never went back.

But sometimes, late at night, I hear a knock at my apartment door.

It always comes in pairs.

Knock. Knock.

Just like the sound of a second door.

---

Let me know if you want a version with dialogue, more gore, a historical twist, or even a cursed object instead.