The Yawning Door

The basement door in the hallway did something no door should do. It opened upward—slowly,

like a mouth yawning toward the ceiling. Every night at 2:33 a.m., it lifted an inch.

Just an inch. Just enough to see darkness beneath. They tried taping it shut.

It still lifted. They wedged furniture against it. Still lifted. One night,

they crouched beside it with a flashlight. At 2:33, the door rose. Something moved

below— not an animal, not a person… more like darkness shifting of its

own accord. The flashlight flickered. The door yawned wider. A low breath escaped

from the opening, the kind of sound a room makes after being sealed for too long.