31 Jan The Red Armoire

Part I

James Whitaker didn’t believe in bad luck. Or cursed objects. Or anything that couldn’t be explained with logic and reason. That’s what he told himself, at least.

But when the movers struggled to carry the armoire into the house—when it caught on the doorway for no reason, when the men grunted and swore about how it felt heavier than it should be—James couldn’t quite shake the strange feeling creeping up his spine.

Lauren, of course, was delighted.

“It’s perfect,” she sighed, running her fingers over the dark mahogany finish. “You can’t find craftsmanship like this anymore.”

James nodded but kept his eyes on the armoire. It was massive—a towering, old-world thing with elaborate floral carvings along its edges, like something out of a Victorian manor. And yet, for all its artistry, there was one thing off about it: a single door, painted a deep, unbroken red.

The rest of the armoire had the rich warmth of aged wood, but that door… it didn’t belong. It was almost jarring in contrast, as though someone had replaced it with a different piece entirely.

“The red door’s a little weird, don’t you think?” he muttered, running a hand across the surface.

Lauren gave him a teasing look. “You just don’t like antiques.”

“I like antiques just fine,” James said. “I don’t like things that look like they’ve been tampered with.”

Lauren rolled her eyes, turning her attention to the movers, who were now panting and visibly sweating, despite the house’s mild temperature.

“Almost got it,” one of them huffed, angling it around the corner. “Damn thing must be lined with lead.”

James frowned. “Didn’t seem that heavy at the shop.”

The lead mover, a burly man with a tattooed forearm, wiped sweat from his brow and shot him an odd look. “Could’ve fooled me.”

It took another ten minutes to wedge the thing into their bedroom. The movers left without much conversation, though James noted how quickly they went, practically jogging down the front steps.

Lauren, meanwhile, had already started filling the armoire, humming to herself.

James exhaled and rubbed his temples. Maybe he was just overthinking it. Maybe it was just an old piece of furniture.

* * * * * *

That night, James lay in bed, listening to the house settle. The place was old—a fixer-upper with charm, as Lauren liked to call it. That meant creaky floors, drafty windows, and the occasional odd noise. It hadn’t bothered him before. But now…

His gaze drifted to the armoire. Its massive frame stood against the wall, casting shadows that swallowed up the faint glow from the hallway light.

James turned over, forcing his eyes shut. It was just a piece of furniture.

Lauren had spent weeks looking for something like this, and now that they had it, he was being paranoid.

Still…

A scent drifted through the air. Faint. Musty. Metallic.

James furrowed his brow. Old wood, he told himself—nothing more.

Sleep came slowly that night, restless and thin. And at some point, in the dark quiet of early morning, James swore he heard a soft creak—like a door shifting open on its own.

Part II

James awoke to the feeling of being watched.

The room was still and dark, the only light coming from the sliver of the streetlamp outside. His eyes adjusted slowly, tracing the familiar shapes of furniture—the dresser, the bedframe, the curtains shifting slightly in the breeze.

And then his gaze landed on the armoire.

The red door was open. Only an inch, but enough for him to notice.

He sat up, rubbing at his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep. Had Lauren left it open? He didn’t remember hearing her get up or touching the armoire after they’d gone to bed.

Still, there was a logical explanation. There always was. Maybe the door was loose on its hinges. Maybe the shifting house had jostled it just enough to creak open.

James swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, padding across the icy floor. The house was silent aside from the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall.

He reached for the door, fingers brushing against the wood.

It was cold—much colder than it should have been.

James swallowed hard and pushed the door shut. The latch clicked into place, and he gave it a small tug to make sure it was secure. Satisfied, he turned back toward the bed.

He heard a faint creak behind him.

James whirled around. The door hadn’t moved, but for a split second, he could’ve sworn he felt a rush of air from inside the armoire.

A draft, he reasoned. That was all. Still, it took him longer than usual to fall back asleep.

* * * * * *

The next morning, James barely remembered the incident. Sleep had dulled the unease and made it feel like a half-formed dream.

Lauren was already up by the time he came downstairs, sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

“You okay?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

James grunted, running a hand through his hair. “Did you open the armoire last night?”

She frowned. “No. Why?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, reaching for the coffee pot. “I just thought I saw it open when I woke up.”

Lauren smirked. “Maybe it’s haunted.”

James snorted. “Yeah. Or maybe the hinges are just loose.”

Lauren shrugged, standing to rinse her mug. “Well, I’d be fine with a ghost. As long as it does laundry.”

James chuckled, shaking his head. The tension from the night before seemed absurd now, like all fears do in the morning. But later that afternoon, while Lauren was out running errands, James found himself drawn back to the armoire. It stood in the bedroom, silent and unmoving, its dark wood polished to a dull sheen.

His eyes lingered on the red door. He reached out, pressing his palm against it, expecting it to swing open like before. But this time, it resisted.

James frowned and ran his fingers along the edges, searching for a seam. And then, beneath his fingertips, something shifted—a soft, muted click.

The red panel moved inward, revealing a hidden compartment behind it.

James stared.

The space inside was small, maybe the size of a shoebox, but it was filled with objects—strange, unsettling things that looked as though they’d been hidden away for years. A porcelain doll sat in the center, its face cracked, its empty sockets staring up at him.

Beside it was a small, shriveled hand, wrapped in brittle twine. The skin was leathery, with blackened fingernails.

James hesitated, his fingers hovering over the edge.

There was more—a rusted pocket watch with no hands, a bundle of brittle, yellowed teeth wrapped in cloth, a fragment of bone engraved with symbols he didn’t recognize.

A wave of nausea rolled through him.

Who the hell would keep something like this?

A gust of air brushed against his cheek. James jerked back, suddenly feeling as though he’d gotten too close to something he wasn’t supposed to see.

The room was still—but he could’ve sworn he heard a faint, distant whisper, just beyond the armoire’s walls.

James shoved the panel shut.

Lauren came home an hour later, carrying a grocery bag in one hand and flipping through mail in the other. James barely registered it. He was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around his coffee mug, staring blankly at the surface.

Lauren dropped the keys into the dish by the door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

James exhaled, rubbing at his temples. “There’s… something inside the armoire.”

Lauren gave him a flat look. “Yeah. Clothes.”

“No,” James said, standing. “I mean, behind the red door. There’s a hidden compartment.”

That caught her attention.

Lauren set the groceries down and followed him upstairs. James moved to the armoire, pressing against the red panel again.

Click.

The door swung inward.

Lauren leaned in, her brows furrowed, and stiffened.

“What the hell?” she muttered, pulling back as though something in the compartment had burned her.

James watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her elbows. “Who keeps this kind of stuff?”

James shook his head. “No idea.”

Lauren’s eyes lingered on the shriveled hand. The twine was frayed, as though someone had unraveled it and then tied it back together. James expected her to be intrigued, maybe even excited, the way she always was about old things. Instead, she stepped back.

“Close it.”

James blinked. “What?”

“Just—close it. I don’t like it.”

For once, James didn’t argue. He pushed the panel shut again. The click felt… louder this time.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Then Lauren exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “We should just leave it alone.”

James nodded.

But even as they stepped away, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d disturbed something.

Something that didn’t want to be disturbed.

Part III

That night, James woke to the sound of wood creaking.

At first, he wasn’t sure if he had actually heard it or if it had simply bled into his dreams—one of those noises that meant nothing until it did. He lay still, blinking into the dark, his body sluggish with sleep.

The room was quiet. And yet, just beneath the surface, something felt off and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Lauren was curled up beside him, breathing softly. James shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.

And then he saw it.

The red door was open—just a crack at first, barely noticeable. But as James stared, it shifted just a fraction of an inch, as if something inside had nudged it open.

A cold chill rolled over him. He swallowed hard, trying to work through the logical explanations. Maybe Lauren had opened it and forgotten to close it. Maybe the latch was weak. Maybe it was the air pressure in the room.

Maybe.

But then there was the smell—faint, musty, and metallic. It was the same scent from the night before. The same scent that had clung to the inside of the hidden compartment.

James forced himself to move, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The moment his bare feet touched the floorboards, the armoire door creaked again—a slow, deliberate groan of wood shifting—and James froze.

His skin prickled, an instinctive reaction—something deep and primal in his gut telling him not to go any closer. But he did anyway.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as though something in the air was pressing down on him.

James brushed his fingertips against the wood. It was frigid, just like before.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door shut, and the latch clicked into place.

James stood there for a moment longer, waiting, listening—nothing. Only silence.

With a slow exhale, he turned and crawled back into bed, doing his best to ignore the way his skin crawled beneath the sheets.

He told himself it was fine, that it was just an old armoire, nothing to worry about. But when he closed his eyes, he swore he could still feel something watching him.

* * * * * *

In the morning, James tried to put it out of his mind.

Lauren was already up by the time he wandered into the kitchen, sipping coffee at the counter.

“Did you open the armoire last night?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

Lauren frowned over the rim of her mug. “No. Why?”

James hesitated.

He wanted to tell her about the door opening on its own, about the way the wood creaked like something was shifting inside, but she already looked uneasy about the whole thing.

“Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I probably just forgot to close it all the way.”

Lauren didn’t seem convinced, but let it go at that.

James poured himself a cup of coffee, still feeling unsettled.

He glanced nervously toward the bedroom door. Something about the armoire was wrong; he just couldn’t put his finger on why.

* * * * * *

That night, it happened again.

James woke suddenly, though he wasn’t sure why.

At first, everything seemed normal. Lauren was fast asleep beside him. The room was quiet.

And then he saw it. The red door was wide open.

James inhaled sharply. He didn’t remember hearing it creak this time. Didn’t remember feeling the shift of air. It was just… open.

The scent hit him immediately—of rotting wood, rusted metal, and something damp—was stronger now.

James swung his legs over the bed, more irritated than afraid, and stomped toward the armoire, slamming the door shut. This time he tested it—pulling at the edge, jostling it, trying to force it back open.

The latch held firm.

James exhaled sharply and turned back toward the bed. But as soon as he stepped away—

CREEEEEAK.

James froze.

The sound echoed through the quiet bedroom, unmistakable.

He turned back. The red door was halfway open again.

James swallowed hard and stepped closer. The inside of the armoire was dark. Too dark.

For a split second, James thought he saw something move in the shadows—something that shouldn’t be there.

It was a trick of the light, he imagined. Had to be.

James grabbed the door and forced it shut again, harder this time. Then he grabbed one of Lauren’s scarves from the dresser and tied the handles shut.

That should hold it, he figured. That should be the end of it.

But even as he climbed back into bed, the scent lingered. And as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he swore he heard a faint whisper from inside the armoire.

A voice.

Speaking words he didn’t understand.

Part IV

James woke to the sound of knocking. It wasn’t coming from the front door. It wasn’t even coming from inside the house.

It was coming from the armoire—a steady, rhythmic tap, tap, tap against the inside of the red door.

James bolted upright. The scarf was gone.

The red door was slightly ajar, just like before.

Lauren stirred beside him, mumbling something incoherent before rolling over. She hadn’t heard it.

James sat there for a long moment, staring.

The knocking had stopped. The room was silent, save for the low hum of the heater and the distant sound of a car passing outside.

Slowly, he slid out of bed. Each step toward the armoire felt wrong, like walking against an unseen current.

He reached for the door. This time, before he could touch it—

CREEEAAAAK.

It swung open on its own.

James jerked back, his stomach twisting. The scent hit him instantly—musty wood, damp rot, and rusted metal.

And then he saw it. The compartment was empty. The doll, the hand, the teeth—all gone. The space behind the red door was pitch black and impossibly deep, as though it stretched farther than the depth of the armoire itself.

James slammed the door shut. With shaking hands, he grabbed a chair and jammed it under the handles, bracing the armoire against the wall.

Lauren stirred again, blinking blearily at him. “James? What are you doing?”

James swallowed hard. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

She frowned but didn’t push. Within moments, she was out again.

James, however, didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, he was determined to get rid of the armoire. Lauren was in the shower when he made the call.

“Look, I just—I need it gone,” he told the moving company.

A pause.

“You just had it moved in, right?” the man on the other end asked.

“Yeah, but I changed my mind.”

Another pause. The guy sounded uneasy. “Uh… okay. We can be there in an hour.”

James exhaled, relieved. “Thanks.”

When the movers arrived, he led them upstairs, half-expecting the chair to have been knocked over, or the red door hanging open again.

But it wasn’t. It looked perfectly normal.

The instant the movers laid their hands on it, though, something shifted—their expressions changed.

“Damn,” one of them muttered, flexing his fingers. “That thing’s cold as hell.”

James said nothing.

They tried to lift it—tried hard. But the armoire wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had become part of the house itself, anchored in place.

James felt something sour in his stomach.

“Try angling it,” he suggested.

The movers adjusted their grip, grunting with effort, but it was no use.

“It’s too heavy,” one of them huffed. “Was it this bad when we brought it in?”

James hesitated. “No.”

The men exchanged looks. “I mean, we can try again, but…”

James didn’t like where this was going.

“Just—give it one more go,” he said.

They tried—tried until their faces were red—but no matter what they did, the armoire refused to move.

James clenched his jaw.

“All right,” the lead mover said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but we’re not gonna be able to get it out of here.”

James stared at them. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the man sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead, “whatever this thing is made of, it’s not going anywhere.”

James’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to argue, to tell them to try harder, but the look on their faces stopped him.

They were relieved; they wanted to get away from it.

James let out a slow breath. “Fine.”

The men didn’t waste time leaving the house. A minute or so later, James heard their truck pull away, the engine fading into the distance.

He turned back toward the bedroom, where the armoire sat, waiting. Unmoving. Unyielding.

Something inside him sank. Lauren would not be happy.

* * * * * *

And she wasn’t.

When she got home later that afternoon, she took one look at James’s face and knew.

“It’s still here, isn’t it?” she asked.

He nodded.

Lauren exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Jesus, James. It’s just a stupid wardrobe! If you hate it that much, we’ll just sell it.”

James didn’t answer. Deep down, he already knew—no one else would be able to take it. The armoire didn’t want to leave.

That night, Lauren packed a small bag. “I think I’m gonna stay at my sister’s for a few days,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

James opened his mouth, and then shut it. She wasn’t leaving because of him—she was leaving because of it. And he didn’t blame her.

She kissed him on the cheek before heading out the door.

A moment later, James stood there in silence, staring at the empty space she had left behind.

Upstairs, the red door creaked open.

Part V

James barely slept. Instead, he waited—waited for the armoire to do something.

Because it would. It always did.

At 3:33 AM, a familiar sound crept into the room.

Creeeaaak.

James inhaled sharply. He knew even before looking that the red door was open again.

He sat up slowly. As he did, the scent hit him immediately—earthy, wet, and metallic—but this time, there was something else. Something rotting.

James swallowed against the bile in his throat. He didn’t want to move closer, but he had to.

His feet barely made a sound as he crossed the floor. The armoire stood there, its door open just a few inches, as if it were expecting him.

James reached out. And then—

He saw them.

The trinkets had multiplied.

What had once been a few objects tucked away in the hidden compartment had spread across the floor of the armoire, spilling outward.

More dolls—rows of them, their eyes scratched out.

Teeth, piles of them, scattered like discarded dice.

Rusted pocket watches, ticking even though they had no hands.

A child’s shoe, damp and caked in something dark.

James stumbled back, horror clawing its way up his throat.

This wasn’t possible. They hadn’t been there before. They hadn’t been there yesterday.

But there they were.

And then he noticed the new object—a Polaroid picture. James frowned.

It lay at the center of the pile, its edges worn and yellowed. Something about it felt deeply, horribly wrong. He reached for it before he could stop himself.

The second his fingers brushed the surface, his vision flickered and, for a split second, the room was gone.

* * * * * *

Everything was dark. Wet. Stifling.

He was somewhere else.

A basement. Dirt floor. Heavy breathing. Something moving in the dark—

James gasped, snapping back into the present.

The Polaroid was still in his hand.

He turned it over, dreading what he might see.

His chest went ice cold.

It was a picture of him. In it, he was younger—eight, maybe nine years old—and standing in his childhood backyard.

But he wasn’t alone. There was someone behind him—a shadowed figure, just out of focus, its shape wrong, its head tilted at an unnatural angle.

James dropped the photo like it had burned him.

No, he thought. No, that didn’t make sense. This had to be a trick.

But as he backed away from the armoire, as the whispers returned—low, persistent, crawling along the edges of his mind—James understood.

The armoire knew him—and it was only getting started.

The next morning, James barely ate.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his untouched coffee, when his phone buzzed.

Lauren.

James hesitated before answering.

“Hello,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Hey,” she replied. “Just checking in. You okay?”

James exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Fine.”

An awkward pause.

“James.”

He shut his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted. “But… something’s wrong with it, Lauren.”

He could hear her shift on the other end.

“It’s just a piece of furniture,” she said, but there was a hesitation in her voice now.

James clenched his jaw. “It won’t leave. It’s heavy as hell. It opens on its own. And now—” He stopped himself.

Now what? Now it was making things appear? Now it was showing him things that shouldn’t exist?

She’d think he was losing it. Hell, maybe he was.

Lauren sighed. “Just… get out of the house for a bit, okay? Get some fresh air.”

James nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat there for a long time, staring at the hallway and the shadows pooling near the bedroom door.

The armoire was waiting.

Part VI

James didn’t leave the house—not that day, and not the day after.

The idea of stepping outside, of leaving the armoire alone in the house, filled him with an inexplicable sense of dread.

He told himself he wasn’t afraid, that he was just waiting for an opportunity to figure out what was happening. But deep down, in the part of his brain that still understood fear, he knew the truth. The armoire didn’t want him to leave.

Worse yet, he didn’t want to leave it, either.

By the third day, James noticed the changes, subtle at first. It began with small things that could be explained away.

As strange as it sounded, the house felt bigger. The hallway seemed longer when he walked down it. The ceilings felt too high, like the walls were stretching ever so slightly, pulling away at unnatural angles.

The mirrors weren’t right, either. At first, he chalked it up to exhaustion. The reflections lagged, just a fraction of a second behind him.

But then, in the bathroom mirror, he caught his own reflection staring at him when he wasn’t looking.

James refused to check the mirrors after that.

* * * * * *

The food in the fridge rotted overnight.

It didn’t matter if it was fresh—milk, fruit, leftovers—everything spoiled by morning. But only in the kitchen.

The trinkets in the armoire never changed. They didn’t rot or decay; they only multiplied.

And every night, the red door swung open, and new things appeared inside.

By now, James had stopped touching them—he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to feel the shivering pulse of energy beneath his fingertips, the way the objects seemed to hum with a quiet, terrible awareness.

But there was one thing he couldn’t ignore:

The letters.

They started appearing two nights earlier, buried beneath the trinkets, folded and yellowed like old parchment.

James tried not to read them, but when one tumbled out of the armoire and landed at his feet, he couldn’t help himself.

The ink was smeared, and the handwriting was jagged and uneven, but the message was clear:

I TRIED TO BURN IT.

James swallowed hard.

The next letter was shorter:

IT WON’T LET ME LEAVE.

A third:

IT KNOWS MY NAME.

James staggered back. His name was scrawled at the bottom of the last letter—not in ink, but in his own handwriting.

That night, James locked the bedroom door—but it didn’t matter. At exactly 3:33 AM, he woke to the sound of scratching. Not at the door—at the walls.

It came from inside them, a slow, purposeful scrape—like nails dragging across wood, moving from the ceiling to the floor.

James clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay still.

It was just a dream, he rationalized. Just a trick of his exhausted mind.

But then came the whisper: “It’s almost time.”

James bolted upright. The room was freezing. He turned toward the armoire and found the red door open again. This time, it had swung all the way back, exposing the hidden compartment.

James’s stomach lurched. Something was in there now, not just trinkets or letters. A gap. A black space beyond the wood, too deep, too dark—like the inside of the armoire had been gutted and stretched into something else, something that shouldn’t be there:

A void.

And in that void, James swore he saw something move. Something breathing, something waiting.

It wasn’t just an armoire. It was a door—and it was opening wider.

James shut his eyes. His entire body shook, his mind reeling, every part of him screaming to close it, shut it, and to not look inside—

But a voice whispered, soft and knowing, “You already have.”

James turned and fled the room.

Part VII

James didn’t sleep, not after what he saw. Not after the black space behind the red door stretched wider than it should have, revealing something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

By morning, he refused to go back into the bedroom, not with the armoire still in there. Not with the door hanging open, its dark interior yawning like a waiting mouth.

Instead, he paced the kitchen, his fingers gripping a coffee mug he had no intention of drinking.

The armoire had won. The house belonged to it now. And James knew, deep down, it was only a matter of time before it owned him, too.

By nightfall, the house had changed—the dimensions were wrong. Doors were farther away than they should have been. The ceiling felt higher. The hall stretched just a little too long.

James ignored it. Ignored the shadows pooling at the edges of the living room. Ignored the fact that when he reached for the front door, his hand missed the knob by several inches—like the door had shifted the second before he touched it.

It wouldn’t let him out.

He tried the back door next.

Same result.

James felt his stomach twist.

The house wasn’t just warping around him.

It was a trap—and it was closing in.

* * * * * *

At 3:33 AM, the armoire called to him.

James sat on the living room couch, body tense and shaking, when he heard it: A single creak, stretching through the stillness.

James knew what had happened. He didn’t need to see it—but he had to know for sure. His legs moved before his mind could stop them, carrying him toward the bedroom. Each step felt wrong—as if the floorboards weren’t quite solid anymore, slowing his movements.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. The bedroom door tilted slightly, as though the weight of something massive pressed against it from the other side.

James pushed it open.

The armoire door was wide open. All the way. And now, there was no hidden compartment, no back panel. Just a gaping void, stretching into pure darkness, too deep and unnatural.

This wasn’t a piece of furniture. It had never been a piece of furniture.

It was a passageway, a door to somewhere else—and something was moving inside.

James took a shaky step forward. Inside the darkness, shapes shifted; the sound of breathing curled through the silence.

Then—a whisper. Soft, familiar. A voice he hadn’t heard in decades.

“James.”

It was his mother’s voice.

James’s entire body locked up.

Impossible.

She had been dead for fifteen years.

He swallowed thickly. “Mom?”

A pause.

Then—

A shadow leaned forward from the void, and James’s knees almost buckled.

The thing inside the armoire looked like her, had the same hollow cheeks and blue eyes. But something was wrong—the way her jaw was slightly unhinged, the way her eyes didn’t quite focus. The way she stood there, watching him, lips curled into a slight, waiting smile.

James shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s not real.”

A second whisper, softer than before.

“James,” it called. “Come inside.”

James stumbled backward.

The walls groaned, stretching, bending inward like breathing flesh.

The house was collapsing, folding into the armoire—or maybe the armoire was expanding. The line between them had blurred.

And suddenly, James realized the truth: There was no house anymore. There was only the door. And it was pulling him in.

James turned to run, but the thing inside moved first.

This time, it wasn’t his mother anymore.

It was him.

Part VIII

Lauren arrived home just before noon. She hadn’t told James she was coming. When he hadn’t answered her texts or calls for two days, she decided enough was enough.

She wasn’t angry—not yet. Just… tired.

Lauren pulled into the driveway, staring at the house. The shades were drawn. The porch light was still on, even though it was broad daylight.

A knot twisted in her stomach. Something felt off.

She grabbed her purse, walked up the steps, and tried the front door.

Unlocked.

Lauren hesitated. James always locked the door. Always.

She pushed her way into the house. Inside, the air was stale and quiet—too quiet.

“James?” she called.

No answer.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

The kitchen was exactly as she left it—except for the coffee mug on the table, still half full, the liquid inside thick and murky with age.

A rotten smell drifted through the air. Lauren frowned, and turned toward the bedroom.

Somehow the hallway felt longer than she remembered. She stepped forward, her footsteps echoing loudly.

“James?”

Nothing.

She reached the bedroom door and pushed it open—and her stomach dropped.

James wasn’t there.

But the armoire was.

And the red door was open.

Lauren froze, her throat tightening. The inside was empty. No clothes. No shelves. Just a deep, black void, stretching too far back.

Lauren gasped. A new object sat on the floor, just at the edge of the armoire’s gaping dark. She stepped closer.

It was a wedding ring. James’s wedding ring.

Lauren knelt slowly, hand trembling as she reached for it. The moment her fingers touched the metal, a soft, familiar whisper broke through the silence. A voice she had known for years.

“Lauren.”

She looked up, and her blood went cold. There, inside the armoire, deep within the darkness—James stared back at her.

At least, she thought it was James.

Upon closer inspection, his face wasn’t right. His smile was too wide. His eyes were wrong—too dark, too empty.

Lauren staggered backward. “No,” she whispered.

She turned and ran, and didn’t stop until she was outside and in her car, the engine roaring to life beneath her shaking hands.

Behind her, the house loomed, its windows dark and menacing. Lauren threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching against the pavement.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She knew.

The armoire was still there. The red door was still open.

And James—

Whatever was left of James—

Was waiting inside.