Behind the door

Past Shadow 3

Chapter 5 - Shadow Of The Past

The candle guttered as Elena lingered at the top of the stairs, her eyes locked on the narrow, hidden door. Its plain wooden face seemed almost alive, as though it breathed in the shadows of the hallway. She reached for the brass handle again, twisting until her palm ached, but it remained locked.

Her grandmother’s words from the journal echoed in her head: “Some doors shouldn’t be opened.”

But Elena was not a child anymore. She wanted answers. She needed them.

Biting her lip, she crouched and ran her hand along the edges of the frame. Her fingers brushed against something cold—a small iron keyhole nearly invisible in the dim light. Her pulse raced. If there was a key, it had to be somewhere in this house.

She stood and backed away, promising herself she would search in daylight. For now, exhaustion gnawed at her bones. She returned to her bedroom, locking the door firmly behind her.

Yet even as she lay beneath the quilt, the storm outside thrashing at the windows, her mind wouldn’t rest. Adrian’s face lingered in her thoughts—the storm-gray eyes, the softness in his voice when he said he didn’t want her hurt.

She tried to dismiss it, tried to convince herself he was only playing some role in this strange mystery. But deep down, her heart whispered something else: that he meant it.

The house creaked around her as the wind pressed against the walls. She closed her eyes, clutching the journal close, but the words blurred in her mind: “They are watching again… The man with gray eyes…”

Her heart clenched. Could Adrian really be the same man her grandmother feared? Or was she twisting the words to fit her suspicion?

At some point, she drifted into uneasy sleep.

---

A noise woke her.

Elena sat up, heart hammering, listening to the silence. For a moment, she thought she had dreamed it. Then she heard it again—soft, measured footsteps in the hallway just beyond her door.

She froze. The handle didn’t turn, but she swore she heard the faintest whisper, like breath brushing against the wood.

Her chest tightened. Slowly, she slipped out of bed, crept across the room, and pressed her ear against the door.

Silence.

Then—a soft knock. Three times. Steady. Patient.

Elena jerked back, stifling a gasp. “Who’s there?” Her voice shook despite her effort to sound strong.

No reply.

She waited, every nerve on edge, until the knock came again—gentler this time, almost pleading.

Her trembling hand reached for the lock, but reason clawed at her mind. Whoever—or whatever—was outside did not want to be seen.

“Elena.”

Her breath caught. It was Adrian’s voice. Low. Urgent.

Her fingers froze on the lock.

“Don’t open the door,” he whispered through the wood. “Not tonight. Promise me.”

Her skin prickled with cold. “Adrian—what’s happening? Why are you here?” she whispered back, almost desperate.

But no answer came.

The floorboards creaked once more, and then the sound of footsteps faded down the hall.

Elena pressed her back against the door, clutching her grandmother’s journal to her chest. Her mind raced. Did he just save her from something—or was he the very thing she needed saving from?

Either way, she knew one truth for certain:

Whatever secrets her grandmother had buried in this house, she was no longer facing them alone.