The Crimson Door

                                                                The Crimson Door

Eliza had inherited the house from her estranged grandmother, a woman she barely remembered. The house was a crumbling Victorian monstrosity perched on a hill, its windows darkened by years of grime. Despite its eerie aura, Eliza saw it as a chance for a fresh start.

While exploring the house, she discovered a door in the basement, painted a deep, unnatural crimson. It was locked, and no key seemed to fit. Carved into the wood was a single word: "Knock."

Eliza laughed it off as a strange decoration. But that night, as she lay in bed, she heard it: three slow, deliberate knocks from below. Her heart pounded. She convinced herself it was just the house settling and ignored it.

The next day, curiosity got the better of her. She returned to the crimson door, determined to figure it out. This time, she knocked—three times, mimicking the pattern from the night before.

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, the door creaked open, revealing absolute darkness inside. A cold wind rushed past her, carrying whispers—faint, incomprehensible, and deeply unsettling.

Eliza peered inside, and the darkness seemed to move, shifting like liquid. A single pale hand reached out, its fingers unnaturally long, beckoning her closer. Paralyzed with fear, she couldn't move as the hand gripped her wrist and yanked her into the void.

he crimson door slammed shut. Upstairs, the house stood silent.

Days later, the house was listed as abandoned once more. In the basement, the crimson door remained, now with a new name carved into it: "Eliza."

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