There had been three nights since Ahaan escaped the library basement.
But he wasn't the same.
He didn't sleep.
He didn't laugh.
He hardly even ate.
The whispers hadn't stopped.
They were louder now. Clearer.
And they always said the same thing:
"Come to the door… We're waiting…"
One night, just past midnight, Ahaan woke up.
His bedroom was freezing cold.
He saw his breath in the air.
Then—creak—his closet door opened slowly.
No wind.
No movement.
But something called him.
He got up, grabbed the journal and flashlight, and followed the whisper.
It led him down the stairs, past the living room, and straight out the front door.
The streets were empty.
The lights were flickering.
The voice guided him with one word, again and again:
"Orphanage…"
Soon, Ahaan stood in front of Blackthorn Orphanage.
It looked worse than before.
The windows were covered in black stains.
The walls had deep claw marks.
The front gate hung broken, swinging with a slow screech.
The moment he stepped through, the journal flipped open on its own.
New words appeared:
CASE TWENTY-ONE: The Door That Breathed
"There is a door in the orphanage basement.
It is sealed for a reason.
The air behind it is alive.
Some say it breathes.
Some say it remembers.
Some say… it hates."
Ahaan's hands shook.
But he couldn't turn back.
He walked through the broken front door.
The air inside was thick—like walking through smoke.
He could hear something below him… like a soft inhale… and exhale.
Breathing.
Not human breathing.
Not normal.
It was slow. Deep. Heavy.
And it was coming from underground.
The stairs to the basement creaked under Ahaan's feet.
Cobwebs clung to his clothes.
The deeper he went, the colder it became.
Finally, he reached the bottom.
There it was.
The door.
It didn't look like a normal door.
It pulsed.
Like a lung.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The wood expanded… and shrunk… with each breath.
Ahaan stared, frozen.
The door had no handle.
No keyhole.
Only carvings—scratched words:
"DO NOT OPEN — IT REMEMBERS."
The journal flipped again.
This time, the words were rushed:
"My father tried to seal it. But it's waking up again.
It calls children.
It feeds on their memories.
If it knows your name… it can become you."
Ahaan backed away.
But then—
The door breathed in sharply, like a gasp.
And it said his name.
"Ahaan..."
He froze.
The door was speaking.
"Come closer… I remember you…"
"No… no, you don't," Ahaan whispered.
"Your father brought me something… long ago.
A boy. Not you. But like you.
I still taste his fear…"
Ahaan's heart raced.
The ground shook slightly.
The walls began to bleed.
Dark red liquid oozed from the cracks, running down like tears.
He had to run. Now.
But as he turned to leave, the door exhaled—
And the air turned solid.
It hit him like a wall and threw him backward.
He hit the floor hard.
The flashlight rolled away and broke.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And the door…
Opened a crack.
A hand slipped out.
Long. Gray. Nails like broken glass.
It scraped across the floor, reaching for him.
"Let me wear your face…"
Ahaan screamed.
He grabbed the mirror shard from his bag.
Held it out.
The creature's hand stopped.
It hissed.
Smoke rose where the mirror's light touched it.
The hand pulled back.
The door slammed shut.
The basement went quiet.
Ahaan was gasping. Sweating.
He scrambled up the stairs and burst out into the night.
As he ran, the journal's page caught fire in his hand.
One final sentence appeared before the flames ate it:
"That door knows who you are.
And now… it's dreaming of you."
After this ....