Thread: The Scary Door
View Single Post
Old July 26th, 2011 (5:32 AM). Edited July 27th, 2011 by RetroRoller.
RetroRoller's Avatar
RetroRoller RetroRoller is offline
Trailer Trash
Join Date: Jun 2011
Location: England
Gender: Male
Nature: Modest
Posts: 111
I know the title sounds cheesy, I nned to work on it. This is my first non-pokemon creepypasta, so please criticize!
Quite a few years ago now, in our small town, my mother used to take me shopping on the other, ‘richer’ side of town every Saturday. We would visit some very old, rustic shops which could actually manage to sell clothes from this century. Our town was, and still is a rural, isolated place. It’s an old place, but it’s grown into a hotspot for council estates and crime over these past few years. The town is practically divided into two. One part, my part, the poorer part. The poorer part is where you can’t leave a car or bike for two minutes on its own without it getting stolen, or damaged.

Then there’s the richer part. There are some nicer, larger houses on that side. I don’t know much about the people there though. The town is divided in two by a small railway track, and there are multiple small bridges for cars and pedestrians to cross to the other side. Not that many people do this, however, unless they want to leave the town… But I digress.
After we would have about 3 shopping bags full, and we had spent a few hours in town, we decided it was time to leave to head back. We would always take this shortcut.

Through this alleyway, it was a narrow place, it was lined with fire escapes and dumpsters and back doors. About halfway down the alleyway, there was a door that was different from the others. All the other back doors jutted into the buildings they were attached to slightly. This one stuck out via a large brick wall. It was quite conspicuous and I would always wonder if it was just some architectural abnormality, like it wasn’t supposed to be there, or the owner had it extended slightly. The door was large, but it could only fit a single person through at a time. It wasn’t very tall. It took up about 3 quarters of the wall. It was rusted, and bolted closed. It was a large, obviously thick, iron door. I would always look at it every time I would pass it. I remember, one trip, as my mum held my hand and sped me through the alley, I asked her what was through the door, and she gave me the blunt answer: ‘It’s not important’. And she tightened her grip and sped me through the alley even faster. Even at the age of six, I could tell something was wrong with her. She didn’t like the alleyway. She was scared. This was weird, because my mother wasn’t really that kind of person. She’s the kind of person who would get scared by stuff like: The Exorcist and The Grudge. She obviously did not like venturing down the alleyway, but it was vital for us getting to a bus on time to take us home. We did have a car once, but it got stolen. We found it a few weeks later, crashed and mangled in a bush about 3 miles out of town.

I’m 13 now, and I would sometimes think about that door; it would pop up in my thoughts. I had ventured past it since my experiences at six, but not as often as I once did with my mother. I told my friends about it a few times; some of them would seem interested, others would not be so interested, and others, like I, were curious as to what was behind the door. I would always point it out to my friends whenever we were in town, I would say things like: ‘That’s that alley I was talking to you about, you know, with that weird door?’ and my friends would nod and go ‘Oh’. A few days ago, on Saturday, when I was on my own in town, I was getting ready to head back through the alley and head home, an old man crossed my path. He had grey hair, but he was wearing a hat. He had old, circular, thick glasses and he was looking down. He moved rather slowly with his walking stick. He seemed to have a half-solemn expression on his face, but I couldn’t tell. If I wanted to, I would have to lower my head, and turn it round to look up at his, which would look extremely weird to him and the other people in the street at the time. Because I lived on the poorer side of town, and the residents were not highly thought of by the richer side, the residents of the richer, especially the elderly, seemed as though they were scared of us. At least, that’s what I presumed.

As I approached a street corner, and the man was long past me, I felt a vibration in my coat pocket. It was a text from my friend Travis, the text read: ‘OMG Gaz just dumped Samantha she’s in ****ing tears. ****ing bastard.’ As I was still stood, looking down, I replied quickly: ‘I knew it wouldn’t last I’ll come over when I can ’ I sent the message, and as soon as the screen displayed the two words: ‘Message Sent’ I pressed the back button, locked the keypad and put the phone back in my coat pocket. As I was about to continue onwards, I turned round, and the old man was heading into a building. It was quite far down the street, about three-quarters of the way down. I instantly counted the number of houses between me and the man, and there were 8. I then ventured down the alleyway again, counting the number of back doors I could see. The large iron door was the eighth one. The old man was either the owner, or a resident of that house. I wondered what might have been through the door one more time. I had a more vivid imagination now, seeing as I had read stories like ‘Where the bad kids go’. I smiled to myself, and continued home.

The following Monday I told my friends about my experiences with the old man. Two of my friends replied: ‘Seriously, are you still on that? Drop it, jeez,’ and walked off. Only three of my friends now remained interested. They were Michael, Travis and Samantha. After I finished my story, Michael got the stupid idea that the four of us go to that door tonight, and we see what’s inside. I immediately replied ‘No. It’s a guy’s house! It’s breaking and entering...’ Samantha agreed with me, but Travis sided with Michael, convincing Samantha and I to co-operate by saying: ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Reluctantly, I agreed, but only on the circumstance that if we are caught, Michael takes the blame, so the charges, if any, were not as serious on my, Travis’, and Samantha’s behalf.

That night, I crept out of my house, attempting not to wake my mother up. We met on the street corner where I once texted Travis, as arranged. We then navigated down the alleyway. It was several times more creepy than daytime at night. There was some hustle and bustle of your everyday car coming by, but only one about every 10 seconds. As we approached the large iron door, I started having second thoughts. Travis and Samantha dropped like flies to these feelings also. We explained our feelings to Michael, but he remained as optimistic as ever. He just managed to convince us to go through with what we were about to do. What was strangest, however, was that there was no lock on the door. In daytime, the door was bolted and padlocked, but it wasn’t at night, or at least, when we presented ourselves to it. I blocked the thought of anything creepy out of my head. All we expected to find was some old man’s kitchen. Michael, who was stood closest to the door, asked any of us if ‘We wanted the honours’. We all said no, unsurprisingly. Michael said, still optimistic: ‘I’ll do it then…’

He put his arm forward, his fingers grasped the bolt, and quickly and quietly, the blot slid open. The door was unsurprisingly heavy, and with a struggle, whilst trying to make as little noise as possible, Michael finally opened the door. He did not open it wide enough for any of us to see what was inside. He only opened it so that he could put his head through, and fit in, if he wanted to. He said a ‘Whoa…’ in some kind of amazement. It wasn’t the kind of seeing-something-grand amazement, more of a this-is-weird amazement. He took one step inside, whilst letting go of the door. The door instantly closed whilst making a loud noise. We all gritted our teeth and looked to the second storey of the building. It was an upstairs and there was a window facing the alleyway. None of us wanted to follow Michael, so we waited for about 15 minutes, with Samantha cold, I scared, and Travis pondering on what might have happened to Michael. It was my turn to become the optimistic one: I replied ‘It’s an old guys’ house, maybe he’s just taking a look inside.’

As I looked up to the window, suddenly, abruptly, a light turned on. The light instantly flooded out into the alleyway and we waited for 5 minutes more, and then we heard an agonizing scream coming from inside the building. It was loud, piercing, and Michael’s. I said to the others: ‘Run!’ and we ran as fast as we could, out of the alleyway and home. We split up as we each arrived at our respective homes. Samantha and Travis split from me, still running. I instantly shoved the key into the front door’s lock, twisted the key, and pushed the door open, while trying to remain quiet. I slipped my trainers off and I ran upstairs and climbed into bed, still fully clothed.

I didn’t get any sleep that night. I was pondering all night, staring at my ceiling, thinking about what happened to Michael. However, the least grim of my thoughts was the Michael fell and broke his arm. It was the most optimistic thought. When morning came around, and I managed an hour of sleep, I went downstairs and had breakfast. My mother was in the living room on the phone. She would always talk to her friend at this time… Michael’s mother. My mum immediately rushed into the kitchen where I was eating as soon as her phone conversation ended. She said to me, panicked: ‘I was just speaking to Michael’s mother. Michael’s disappeared! Apparently he went to sleep last night, and in the morning he couldn’t be found anywhere.’

‘Serious?’ I replied. I couldn’t afford to be conspicuous. I didn’t want my mother knowing what might have happened to him. The same day, after school and speaking to a really worried Samantha and Travis, I ventured into town.

I went round the front of the house, and rang the doorbell. I had to ring several times before someone came to the door. The same old man from a few days ago answered the door. His glasses were on, but his hat was off. He had no walking stick; in fact, he seemed to be standing fine without it. He had a stern look on his face. He asked sternly: ‘Who are you?’
I was certainly not going to divulge my name or anything else with this man. I simply replied: ‘My friend went missing last night, apparently he went round this way, did you see anything?’
‘No. I’m sorry, you’ve come at a bad time… Please leave.’
I was having none of it.
As the man went to close the door, I blocked it with my foot.
‘It’s just, I heard he came through the alley behind your house and went through the door. Is that right?’
The man got angry now.
‘I said, please LEAVE!’
He slammed the door shut and not even my foot could block the door. In fact, he pushed the door so hard; my foot was pushed back and knocked off his floor and onto the doorstep on which I was stood.

I walked off from the house, shaking my head in disappointment. I went round the alley again to get back home. As I approached the iron door, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if it had faded into the brick. I say brick; it was a stone wall now. It was painted yellow which stood out even further than the door which was once in the alley. What was frightening though, was in badly written blood-red graffiti on the wall, the words: ‘YOU KIDS NEVER LEARN’ was displayed. It had no full-stop or exclamation mark to symbolize the end of the sentence. I shook my head in puzzlement. I went home again.

As I crossed the railway line to the poorer part of town, a few roads away from the line was Michael’s house. Outside, it had the sign: ‘SOLD’ in the garden. This was even stranger because as I ran back the previous night there wasn’t even a ‘FOR SALE’ sign. I was really confused now.
Once I reached home, everything seemed fine. My mother didn’t seem affected by the news of Michael’s disappearance at all. In fact, she was whistling as she was clearing away the dishes.
This is when I was truly frightened.
I asked my mother: ‘Any news on Michael?’
Eat pizza and stay punk rock

I map for the Source SDK and dabble in ROM Hacking hmu.
Reply With Quote