The handle twisted with a slow, agonizing creak. Aarav's throat tightened, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs as though it wanted to escape. The air turned ice-cold, his breath visible in faint white wisps.
The door—blackened wood etched with shifting symbols—swung open just an inch. A foul gust of air rushed into his room, smelling of damp earth and something rotten. The diary on his desk vibrated violently, its pages flipping as if some invisible hand was searching through them.
Aarav couldn't move. His legs refused to obey. The silence stretched—until a hand emerged from the crack of the door.
It was pale. Too pale. Fingers long, almost skeletal, nails sharp like shards of glass. They dragged slowly across the wood, leaving behind trails of black scorch marks.
A whisper slithered into Aarav's ear.
"You opened it… now it won't close."
The door widened. Shadows spilled out, thick as smoke but alive, crawling across the floor. They wrapped around the table, his bed, his feet. Aarav gasped, stumbling back, but the shadows tightened, anchoring him in place.
Through the widening gap, Aarav glimpsed an eye.
Not human. Not animal. Something else entirely. The iris was a deep, glowing crimson, its pupil vertical like a serpent's. When it blinked, the sound echoed like a door slamming shut.
Aarav's body trembled. His mind screamed to run, but his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to scream—but only a choked sound escaped.
Then he saw her.
The girl—the same one from the diary's sketches—stood inside the darkness. She was no longer just a fleeting vision. Her face was partly hidden in shadow, but her eyes shone with a faint sorrow. She held the diary against her chest, lips trembling as if she wanted to speak but couldn't.
Aarav forced out a whisper.
"Who… who are you?"
She raised her hand slowly, almost pleading, but before she could reach him, the monstrous eye blinked again. The shadows surged forward like a tidal wave.
The door slammed shut with a thunderous bang.
The room fell silent.
Aarav collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Sweat drenched his face, his heart still thrumming in terror. The door was gone—as if it had never existed. Only scorch marks on the floor remained, leading to his desk where the diary now lay open.
On the page, new words had appeared, written in crimson ink that looked far too much like blood.
"Every opening takes a price."