The Basement Door

Saba had never believed in haunted houses. When her parents inherited the old farmhouse on the outskirts of their village, she thought of it as an adventure, a chance to escape the city and experience something different. The house was enormous, with creaking floors, peeling wallpaper, and a basement that had always been locked. Her father warned her never to go near it, claiming it was unsafe, but he never explained why. Saba’s curiosity grew with every passing day.

The first week was peaceful enough. She explored the dusty rooms, admired the antique furniture, and even found a stack of old books hidden in a wardrobe. But the basement door loomed at the end of a narrow hallway. It was heavy, made of dark wood, with rusted hinges and a keyhole that seemed older than the house itself. Every time she passed it, she felt a pull, as if something were calling her from behind the door.

One evening, alone in the house, Saba finally gave in to temptation. She fetched a flashlight and the old brass key her father had carelessly left on a table. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the lock. The door clicked and groaned as it opened, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. The air smelled of mold and decay. A faint draft rose from below, carrying with it a whisper she could not understand.

She stepped inside. The stairs creaked under her weight, and the flashlight’s beam cut through thick darkness. The basement was larger than she expected, filled with old crates, broken furniture, and cobwebs that hung like curtains. As she moved deeper, she noticed something strange: the walls were covered with scratches, shallow at first, then deeper, forming words she could not decipher.

Then she heard it—a soft, dragging sound coming from the far corner. She froze, straining her ears. The sound grew louder, accompanied by a faint whisper: “Saba…”

Her heart raced. She shone the flashlight toward the noise, but the beam revealed nothing. Only darkness and shadows that seemed to twist and stretch unnaturally. The whisper came again, closer this time, more urgent. “Saba… come…”

Fear surged, but curiosity kept her rooted. She moved cautiously toward the corner. The shadows deepened, as if the walls themselves were swallowing the light. Then she saw it: a figure crouched in the corner, pale, with hollow eyes reflecting the flashlight like dark mirrors.

Saba stumbled backward, dropping the flashlight. The beam rolled across the floor, illuminating rows of crates that hadn’t been there moments before, each marked with dates spanning decades. Whispers grew louder, echoing from every corner of the basement. The figure rose slowly, taller than any normal person, moving with jerky, unnatural motions.

Panicked, Saba ran for the stairs, but the basement seemed endless. Every step she took led to the same corner, the same figure. The walls pulsed, as if alive, and the whispers merged into a chorus, calling her name over and over.

Finally, with a scream, she lunged toward the stairs, gripping the banister. She reached the door and slammed it behind her, collapsing to the floor. The house was silent once more, but the fear lingered. She never spoke of what she saw, never returned to the basement, and avoided the old farmhouse entirely.

Weeks later, her father mentioned the basement casually, as if it were just a dusty storage room. But Saba knew the truth. Some doors were not meant to be opened. Some places were alive, feeding on curiosity and fear. The basement waited, patient and hungry, for the next person bold—or foolish—enough to unlock it.

And in the dark of that old farmhouse, something moved, always listening, always waiting, knowing that one day, it would call another name.