By Jimmy Wonders.
There's a reason I can't sleep with my door closed.
A reason why I flinch when I hear someone call my name, even if it's just a whisper.
That summer—God, that cursed summer changed everything.
I was twelve when I went to stay with my uncle in the countryside. My parents were travelling abroad, and they thought the quiet air and green fields would be "good for me."
They didn't know that house wasn't quiet at all.
It was alive.
*********
The Beginning
My uncle's house sat at the edge of a vast field, an old Victorian thing with too many rooms and a smell like wet wood and forgotten time.
My cousin Adrian, who was my age, was my only comfort. He was loud, mischievous, and always full of stories.
The first two weeks were normal—if you could call that house "normal."
We'd play soccer outside, sneak cookies from the kitchen, and talk until midnight about monsters, aliens, and ghosts.
Until that day.
*********
The West Wing
We were having breakfast when Adrian leaned close and whispered,
"Hey Jimmy, want to see something cool?"
I looked at him, curious. "What?"
"The west wing," he said, his eyes gleaming.
"Uncle says it's off limits, but there's something there. Something awesome."
I frowned. "But he said we shouldn't—"
"Come on," Adrian cut in, grinning. "You're scared, huh?"
I wasn't scared—at least, not enough to say no. So I followed him.
The west wing was dusty and silent, like no one had walked through it for years.
The air was cold, and every step echoed like the walls were holding their breath. Portraits of people I didn't recognize lined the walls, their painted eyes following us as we moved deeper.
Adrian pointed at each painting as if giving a tour. "That's Great-Grandpa Thomas, died in the war. That's Aunt Marla—rumor says she went crazy." He laughed.
I didn't.
At the end of the corridor, he stopped, glanced around, then gestured for me to follow him into a narrow side hall.
The wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards creaked beneath our feet.
"There," he said, pointing.
At first, I saw nothing but a wall. Then he peeled away the old wallpaper, and what lay beneath made my stomach twist—
A bronze door.
********
The Bronze Door
It wasn't large, just tall enough for a grown man.
The surface was etched with strange symbols that shimmered faintly even in the dim light. There was no handle, no keyhole—nothing. Just a door that shouldn't have been there.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I found it last month while hiding during a game," Adrian said proudly. "i tried to open it but couldn't. No lock, no latch—nothing. Just there."
His tone was light, but his eyes lingered on it too long.
Then, for reasons I still don't understand, I felt drawn to it. My fingers itched.
I wanted—needed—to touch it.
Adrian sighed. "Wait here, I'll get us some water. Don't go anywhere."
He left.
And I stayed.
The silence grew thick. The air seemed heavier, like it was pressing down on my chest.
I took a step closer. The door seemed to hum faintly, as if breathing. My reflection in its polished surface looked distorted, longer—smiling when I wasn't.
And then, as if possessed, I reached out to touch the handle that wasn't there.
Except… it was.
A bronze handle emerged from the surface as my fingers neared it.
It turned.
The door creaked open slightly, and the sound—it wasn't just sound—it crawled into my bones.
And then…
"Jimmy."
I froze.
Someone had called my name.
"Jimmy…" The voice was soft, almost kind, but it came from the door.
There was nothing inside—only darkness, but I could feel it. A presence. Watching.
Waiting.
My throat went dry. I slammed the door shut and stumbled back, nearly tripping over myself.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I ran—ran all the way back to the kitchen.
Adrian was just coming back with two glasses of water.
"Whoa! What happened to you? You look like you saw a ghost!"
I forced a laugh that trembled. "N-nothing. Just… let's play outside."
He raised a brow, but shrugged. "Fine. Let's cover the wall first, though."
We went back. The corridor looked exactly as before. The bronze door was gone—covered by the wallpaper again.
Adrian smirked. "You covered it well."
But I didn't. I never did.
My hands were shaking. "Yeah… I guess I did."
********
The Door That Followed
That night, I couldn't sleep. The air felt wrong.
I got up for water, and as I turned back toward my room—I nearly dropped the cup.
The bronze door was there.
Right across the hallway, opposite my room.
I stood frozen. It was the same door—the same engravings, the same faint hum.
And then, faintly, I heard it again.
"Jimmy… open the door."
I ran into my room and locked it. Crawled under the blanket like a child and trembled until morning.
The next day, it was gone.
When I told Adrian, he laughed. "You probably dreamt it, dude. You've been watching too many horror movies."
I wanted to believe him. But that night… it came back.
And the next.
And the next.
Always closer.
Sometimes opposite my bed. Sometimes at the foot of it. Sometimes on the ceiling. Always whispering—soft, patient, loving.
"Jimmy… open the door."
*******
The Voice
I stopped eating properly. Stopped talking much.
My uncle thought I was just homesick.
Adrian stopped teasing me after he saw me wake up screaming one night.
I tried to tell him—it's not just a dream. It's real.
He didn't believe me.
No one ever does.
The whispers got louder. The door began appearing during the day.
Sometimes, I'd blink, and it would be gone.
Other times, I'd catch it in the reflection of the mirror—standing behind me.
Once, I woke up and found the wallpaper from the west wing on my pillow.
That's when I knew I was losing my mind.
But then… one night, I wasn't dreaming.
*********
The Night of the Door
It was raining. Thunder roared outside, shaking the windows.
I couldn't sleep again. I sat on my bed, eyes half-closed, when I noticed something different.
The air was colder. The smell of metal filled my nose.
I looked up—and the door was there.
Not at the wall.
Not across the room.
But in front of my bed.
Close enough that I could see my terrified reflection on its surface.
And behind that reflection… someone else was smiling.
"Jimmy," the voice said gently. "Please. Open the door."
I should've screamed. I should've run. But I didn't.
My hand moved on its own. Like a puppet string had wrapped around it.
I touched the bronze handle.
It was warm. Pulsing. Alive.
"Come home," it whispered. "We've missed you."
And I opened it.
*********
What I Saw
No words can describe what was behind that door.
It wasn't a room. It wasn't darkness. It was—something else.
A void that breathed. Walls that bled. Faces that melted into one another, whispering, sobbing, calling.
Hands reached out, long and pale, touching my face, my chest, my heart.
I couldn't move. Couldn't think.
"Stay," they said. "Stay, Jimmy."
I screamed—finally screamed—and the door slammed shut on its own.
I woke up in the hospital three days later.
They said Adrian found me in the hallway, unconscious, murmuring something about doors and voices. The west wing had collapsed that night—rotted from within, they said.
But that was a lie.
I know what really happened.
Because sometimes… when I close my eyes, I still hear it.
"Jimmy…"
*******
Now
I'm twenty-five now. I live alone. No visitors.
No locked doors.
Every house I move into… it follows.
Sometimes it waits a week. Sometimes a month. But it always finds me.
I can tell when it's near. The lights flicker, and I smell metal again.
I've tried burning it. Moving across countries. Nothing helps.
You might think this is just a trauma story.
That I'm insane.
Maybe I am.
Because i don't know what it wants from me.
But if you ever wake up one night and see a bronze door where there wasn't one before…
Don't open it.
Please.
Don't open it.
************
The Final Whisper
I can hear it tonight again.
Right outside my room.
"Jimmy…"
My hands are trembling as I write this.
It's closer.
The handle is turning.
I shouldn't—
No.
No, I won't. I—open the door.
Stream Commentary; Tape #52. "Jimmy, Open The Door"
(The screen flickers on. The chat room appears dim, blue-tinted — the familiar eerie glow of Kai's stream. His voice cuts through the static, calm but heavy with thought)
So… the door.
The one Jimmy should've never opened.
You've all heard the story now.
The question that lingers — what was behind that door? And… why him?
(He leans forward, resting his chin on his gloved hand, eyes hidden by the black goggles)
[@Ovesix: It wasn't a ghost, Kai. Not in the traditional sense. It was ancestral. A manifestation of guilt — something that only the bloodline could see. Jimmy's family probably sealed it away generations ago, maybe after a tragedy. The door didn't choose Jimmy by accident… it was waiting for him]
[@Jaija:Then why was it locked in the west wing? That's the part I don't get! Like—why keep something so cursed inside your own home? If I had a haunted door, I'd throw it in the ocean!]
[@Enchomay: Because you can't throw away what's part of your family, Jaija. The west wing wasn't just a place — it was a containment. Old houses have their own logic. It's like… the door represented their hidden sins. Jimmy's family kept it there to lock their shame away. But the thing about shame is, it never stays buried. Not forever]
[@642: Or maybe… the family wasn't locking something in. Maybe they were locking something out.Think about it. Every family rumor, every unexplained death — what if the door was a passage? A two-way gate. The west wing wasn't the hiding place — it was the border. And Jimmy, poor idiot, broke it. He let it through]
"You're all making interesting points. But let me ask this…
If the door was waiting for him — then maybe it wasn't about punishment.
Maybe it was about inheritance.
What if Jimmy didn't open the door… because of curiosity?
What if the door opened for him, because it finally found its next keeper?"
[@Ovesix: keeper? Kai, you mean Jimmy became the door?]
(Kai smirks faintly)
You tell me. We only saw what the story let us see.
A boy vanished, yes — but the west wing was suddenly sealed again, wasn't it?
No one could open it after that.
[@Jaija: So Jimmy… took the place of whatever was behind that door? Like a trade?]
[@Enchomay: That would make sense. Old spirits demand balance. One goes in, one comes out. The door's curse might've been that someone always had to guard it from the inside]
[@642: A family heirloom no one asked for. "Congratulations, son, you've inherited the family doom!" How poetic]
(Kai says quietly, almost sadly)
Jimmy wasn't stupid — he was trusting.
He wanted answers, not fear. And in trying to face the unknown, he became its reflection.
(He pauses, letting the silence stretch, then his tone shifts)
Let this story remind you of something, dear viewers.
Every family carries secrets. Some are whispered in dark corners. Some are built into walls, stitched into lullabies, or hidden behind doors you're told never to open.
But curiosity… it's the oldest sin dressed as courage.
And not every truth deserves the light.
Some truths guard themselves — with darkness.
[@Ovesix : i… just feel sorry for him. No one deserves that. He just wanted to know the truth]
[@Jaija: Yeah… I'll never look at old houses the same again. What if our doors watch us too?]
[@642: Then wave back]
[@Jaija: that's NOT funny!!]
[@Enchomay: You know… maybe that's the point. Some things don't disappear. They just change who they haunt.Jimmy's gone, but the door's still there — waiting.For the next curious soul]
(Kai sits back, his smile faint, unreadable)
And that, my dear audience, is why you must never assume that what's locked away deserves to be freed.
Some questions have prices. Some truths ask for blood.
And some doors… are better left closed.
(He reaches for his microphone, his voice sharpening into that eerie host tone once again.)
Now, take a deep breath.
The next story, dear viewers… is not about courage or curiosity.
It's about deceit. It's about survival.
It's about how far humans can go when the only choices left are Lie… or Die.
Tell me, my little audience — how good are you at lying?
STREAM ENDS