The Door Below
1295 Words
---
The elevator doesn’t move.
I slam the button again and again, but the lights above the door just flicker like dying fireflies.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper through clenched teeth. My reflection in the metal doors looks pale, hollow-eyed — a stranger.
The hospital is too quiet now. The silence feels wrong, heavy, like the whole building is holding its breath.
I back away slowly and glance down the dark hallway. The sign above the stairwell reads “Basement — B1.”
The key in my pocket feels heavier than before. Storage — B1.
Maybe that’s where Rachel is. Or whatever’s left of her.
I don’t want to go down there. Every instinct tells me to run the other way, but there’s nowhere else to go. The main doors are chained shut, the windows reinforced. I’m trapped.
So I head for the stairs.
Each step creaks under my weight. The light grows dimmer the further I descend until the only illumination is from the faint emergency bulb flickering above the landing. My footsteps echo down the concrete walls, and with every sound, it feels like someone is walking right behind me — but when I turn, there’s nothing.
Halfway down, I stop.
There’s something written on the wall in chalk — hurried, almost desperate:
“Don’t open the storage room.”
I trace the letters with my fingers. The chalk is still fresh.
A sound echoes below me — metal dragging against the floor. Then a low groan.
I grip the railing tighter and continue down, one step at a time.
The air changes as I reach the bottom — colder, thicker, damp. The smell of mold and rust fills my nose. The hallway stretches out in front of me, lined with old maintenance doors. Most are locked.
Except one.
The door at the very end is slightly open, a faint light leaking through the crack. The tag reads: STORAGE — B1.
My heart hammers. This is it. The key in my hand shakes as I push the door. It creaks loudly, echoing down the hall.
Inside, the room looks abandoned. Dust coats everything — old gurneys, broken cabinets, medical files stacked in uneven piles. A single fluorescent light flickers overhead.
I take a step forward. The floor is sticky. My shoe makes a wet sound. I look down.
Blood.
A dark trail leads from the doorway to a curtain at the far end.
“Rachel?” I whisper.
Something moves behind the curtain. A shadow shifts.
I freeze.
Then, slowly, the curtain parts.
For a second, I can’t breathe. Rachel stands there — or what’s left of her. Her skin is pale, lips blue, eyes staring blankly ahead. A tube hangs from her wrist like an IV torn out too fast. She takes one shaky step toward me.
“Rach…?” My voice cracks.
Her head tilts.
When she speaks, her voice isn’t hers. It’s deeper, layered, like more than one person speaking at once.
> “You shouldn’t have come back, Emily.”
I stumble backward, hitting a metal shelf. Boxes crash to the floor. Rachel keeps moving, her bare feet leaving red prints on the tile.
> “They don’t like it when you open the door.”
“What are you talking about? Who are they?”
Her lips curl into something between a smile and a grimace.
> “The ones who stayed.”
She takes another step forward, and her eyes roll back until they’re all white. Then she drops to her knees. Her body convulses violently before going still.
I rush forward, shaking her shoulders. “Rachel! Wake up!”
Her head lolls to the side. And that’s when I see it — a small key taped to the back of her neck, just below her hairline. I pull it off. The tag reads: MORGUE — B2.
Before I can react, the light flickers out.
Darkness swallows everything.
Then — a whisper right beside my ear.
> “You shouldn’t have touched her.”
I spin around, swinging blindly. My hand hits metal. The shelf topples over, crashing to the floor. The noise echoes through the dark like thunder.
Something grabs my wrist. Ice-cold fingers. I yank away and run, following the faint outline of the door. But when I reach it — it’s gone. Just a wall of concrete.
“What—no, no, no—!” I slam my hands against it, heart pounding.
The air shifts again. Behind me, I hear breathing. Slow. Heavy. Inhuman.
I turn, but there’s only the dark.
Then the emergency light flickers on for a second.
Enough for me to see them.
Three figures standing at the other end of the room. Hospital gowns. Skin grey. Faces blurred like their features were smeared away. Each one dripping red onto the floor.
The light dies again.
Footsteps.
Closer.
I clutch the small key in my hand and run toward the sound of metal scraping — a vent cover hanging loose near the corner. I wrench it open and crawl inside, panting, knees scraping against cold steel.
Behind me, something slams into the vent. The sound reverberates through the metal like a scream.
I keep crawling. The tunnel turns, slopes downward, until finally I drop into another corridor. It’s colder here, the walls lined with freezers. Frost coats the handles. Above the door, a sign reads: MORGUE — B2.
I use the key. It fits. The lock clicks open.
The door swings inward, releasing a blast of icy air. The morgue is lit only by a single flickering bulb. Rows of body drawers line the walls, some open, some sealed shut with heavy straps. A faint humming comes from a generator in the corner.
I take one cautious step inside. My breath fogs in front of me.
And then, from one of the open drawers, a phone starts to ring.
The sound is muffled at first, then louder. Riiing… riiing… riiing.
I approach slowly. The phone lies on top of a covered body. The caller ID glows faintly: Rachel.
My hand shakes as I answer.
“Rachel?”
For a few seconds, all I hear is static. Then — her voice.
> “You found the wrong body.”
The line goes dead.
The light flickers again. The sheet on the table moves.
I take a step back, eyes wide, as the fabric slowly slides off. A face stares up at me — pale, lifeless, eyes open. My own face.
My scream catches in my throat. I stumble backward, hitting the metal tray behind me. Instruments clatter to the floor. The body’s hand twitches.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop this!”
But it moves again, this time reaching for me. I run to the door, yank it open — and freeze.
The hallway outside isn’t the same. It’s not even the same hospital. The walls are peeling, the floor covered in dust and dried blood. The lights flicker red, as if the building itself is bleeding.
In the distance, a monitor beeps.
Then a voice — distorted, echoing through the speakers overhead:
> “Welcome back, Emily.”
The sound of footsteps returns. Only this time, it’s not one person. It’s dozens.
I sprint down the hallway, searching for an exit. Every door I try is locked. The hallway bends and twists, looping back to the same place — the morgue door.
On the wall beside it, new words appear, written in blood that wasn’t there before:
“Room 9 is never empty.”
Something moves in the reflection of the freezer glass.
I turn, expecting my reflection again.
But this time, she smiles first.
Then the light dies —
and the screaming starts.
---
- Writer
