Don't Open the Door...

  

It started with a simple task: cleaning out my closet. It’s one of those things I put off every few months, but this time, I decided to take care of it. My closet’s a mess—old clothes from college, jackets that don’t fit anymore, random things I’ve collected over the years. You know the type.

I reached for a jacket that I hadn’t worn in ages, one that was a bit too small but always reminded me of simpler times—walking around campus, running late for classes, just the usual college life. I pulled it out from the back of the closet, shook off the dust, and noticed something odd.

There was something in one of the pockets. I don’t remember putting anything in it, and I’ve had this jacket for years. I didn’t even know the last time I wore it, but the thought of finding something inside felt… weirdly comforting.

It was a small, folded piece of paper. The kind of paper that felt old and familiar but still a little crisp. I unfolded it, half expecting to find some stupid receipt or an old ticket from a concert I’d forgotten about. But instead, it was a note, written in my handwriting.

I froze.

It wasn’t the kind of note I would have written recently—it was my handwriting from years ago. But I’m certain I didn’t write this. The words were clear, precise, and strangely calm. Here’s what it said:

“Do not open the door at 3:23 AM. Don’t listen to the knock.”

My blood ran cold. I didn’t even know what to think. I looked at the clock. It was 3:22 AM.

I checked the time again. 3:22 AM.

How could this note have been written by me? I haven’t written anything like this in years. I couldn’t remember ever making a note like this, and yet—there it was, in my handwriting, in my jacket pocket, as if it had been placed there just moments ago.

I stared at the paper for what felt like an eternity. The smell of old leather and paper in the room suddenly felt too thick, like the air was closing in on me. I thought about tossing the note, throwing it away, or burning it. But something made me keep reading.

“I’m not joking. The knock will come. It will be faint at first, but it will get louder. Don’t answer the door. It’s not you on the other side.”

That part didn’t even make sense. It made my head hurt just reading it.

But before I could even make sense of it, the strangest thing happened. I heard it.

A knock.

I know it sounds crazy, but it wasn’t just any knock—it was like someone was tapping on my door, just hard enough for me to hear but soft enough that it almost sounded like I imagined it. I looked up, my heart pounding, and checked the time again: 3:23 AM.

There it was, just like the note said. My mind raced, trying to rationalize it. Maybe it’s a neighbor. Maybe I’m just hearing things.

I stood there frozen for a while, staring at the door, waiting for more knocks, something, anything. But it didn’t come. For a while, the silence was almost unbearable.

And then, I heard it again. This time, it was more deliberate—louder. Almost as if it was an actual person on the other side, someone knocking slowly, methodically, like they knew I was there. But that’s impossible, right?

I’m here alone. No one has keys to my apartment. No one should even know I’m up this late.

I’ve read enough horror stories to know where this is going, but something feels off. This isn’t like any other story I’ve read—this feels personal, like it’s meant for me. That’s what’s scaring me the most right now.

I’m not answering the door. I swear I’m not.

But every time I look at the clock, it’s like I can feel the time slipping by. The knocking hasn’t stopped. It’s still there, faint, rhythmic, almost a whisper at this point. I can’t tell if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or if it’s something… else.

So, here I am. Writing this, because I don’t know who else to tell. I don’t know what to do. The note was right—3:23 AM came and went, and now I’m sitting here in the dark, listening to something I can’t explain.

But if the note was right about that, then what else is true? What else is coming?

I’m scared to find out.

 

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Credits

I’m Still Stuck in My High School...

  

I don’t know how to explain this, but I’m still in my high school. I should be home by now, but somehow, I’m stuck here, and nothing feels right anymore.

It started innocently enough. I was packing up my bag after my last class, just like every other day. The bell rang, and students started filing out, talking about whatever plans they had after school. I grabbed my jacket, said goodbye to a few friends, and made my way toward the stairwell. I figured I’d be home in 20 minutes, just like always.

But as soon as I stepped out into the hallway, everything felt... off. It wasn’t the usual, familiar hallway I’d walked a thousand times. No, this was different. The walls seemed to stretch farther than they should’ve. The tiles on the floor—ones I’d been walking on for years—looked new, but not in a good way. Like they were trying to look older than they were.

At first, I thought I was just tired, maybe a little distracted. So, I took the stairs down to the ground floor, expecting to see the familiar hallway that led to the front doors. But when I reached the bottom, there was another hallway that I didn’t recognize. I stared at it for a moment, trying to make sense of it. There had never been a hallway there before. The walls were lined with old lockers, the kind that were supposed to be gone years ago. I could’ve sworn I was walking in circles.

I started walking down the new hallway, thinking maybe I was just on the wrong floor. But the more I walked, the more I realized this didn’t make sense. I was still in the same place, but it didn’t feel right. The lockers were all closed, but some of them were slightly ajar, like they hadn’t been used in years. And the light flickering above me—it was like the school was glitching, like it wasn’t quite real.

I walked past the classroom doors—some of them were cracked open, but there was no noise coming from inside. No students. No teachers. Just silence.

That’s when I ran into someone I knew. It was Jessica from my history class. She looked... fine. I mean, she looked the same, but there was something off about her. When I waved at her, she gave me this weird look, like she didn’t recognize me. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There was a blankness in her gaze that made my stomach churn.

“Hey, Jess,” I said, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. “What’s up?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just nodded and walked past me, as if I wasn’t even there.

I don’t know why, but I felt an overwhelming urge to follow her. Maybe I was just trying to make sense of everything. But the more I walked, the more everything felt wrong. I started seeing other faces—students, teachers, but they weren’t... they weren’t real. They moved like they were going through the motions, but none of them looked like they were actually there. Like ghosts in a loop.

I went down to the cafeteria to try to clear my head. I figured if I could just get a snack or sit down for a minute, I’d feel better. But when I walked in, it was completely empty. No students, no lunch ladies, just... silence. I grabbed a bag of chips from the counter, but the whole place felt cold, sterile. No one was eating. No one was even sitting at the tables.

I tried to shake it off. Maybe the lunch period had ended early, I thought. But then the bell rang again, and it wasn’t the usual bell. It was deep, echoing through the walls, like it was calling to me.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I bolted out of the cafeteria, hoping to find the exit, but the doors wouldn’t open. The hallway stretched out in front of me, and suddenly, I realized I had no idea where I was. Every turn I made just led to another hallway, another set of stairs, another door that wouldn’t open.

I’ve walked for hours. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. Hours. I’ve tried everything. I’ve gone up, down, tried to retrace my steps, but the school just keeps... changing. It’s like the walls are shifting, pulling me deeper inside. And the people? They’re still here, but they don’t act like they used to. They just... stare at me, like they’re waiting for something.

I saw Mr. McCarthy, my old chemistry teacher, near the science wing. He looked exactly the same, but when I asked him where the exit was, he just stared at me with this strange expression, like he hadn’t even heard me. Then he pointed down the hallway, but I swear the hallway wasn’t there a second ago. I turned to thank him, but when I looked back, he was gone.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if this is some kind of nightmare or if I’m just losing my mind, but I’ve been trying to get out for hours. I keep opening doors that lead to more hallways, and the more I walk, the more the school feels like it’s alive.

And the worst part? Every time I look at the clock, time is going by slower. It’s almost like the seconds are stretching out, holding me in place. I feel like I’m never going to get out of here.

I think something’s waiting for me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s here. It’s always been here.

And now, I’m just waiting for whatever comes next.

 

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Credits

I Record Dreams for A Living

  

Three months ago, I got a job offer from a company I’d never heard of. No interview. No background check. Just an email. “Dream research assistant needed. Quiet night work. High pay. Must be discreet.”

I thought it was a scam, but I clicked anyway. I was two months behind on rent and tired of grinding delivery apps and night shifts at a gas station. Two days later, I was standing in a windowless room at the back of a warehouse on the edge of town, reading a non-disclosure agreement that might as well have been written in blood.

“You will not share any details about the work, equipment, or subjects. Any breach will be met with legal and… appropriate consequences.”

I signed it. I shouldn’t have.

The room I worked in had two chairs, two monitors, and one machine — a dome-shaped thing about the size of a watermelon, covered in metallic wires and nodes. The label read: MIMIR NEURAL SYNC UNIT. They said it could "interface with REM wave activity" to let us observe and catalog dream visuals in real time. I didn't ask how it worked. I just did what they told me.

Every night from 11 PM to 5 AM, I came in, put on the headset, and watched people’s dreams play out like grainy, half-finished films. My job was to log what I saw: Tags. Colors. Symbols. Emotions. Distortions. Most of them were forgettable — bizarre, disconnected messes. Like the mind dumping its trash into the subconscious.

I watched a woman relive her wedding as a loop where her groom’s face kept changing into her dead dog. A man had a recurring dream about drowning in cereal. One guy just sat in a red chair in an endless desert for six hours. I didn’t care. I just tagged and logged. The pay was good. The work was quiet.

Until shift #27.

That night, the dream opened with a man walking through a long white hallway. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He wore a dark hoodie. I couldn’t see his face. His steps echoed. The hallway had doors — each with numbers.

Room 11. Room 12. Room 13…

He stopped at Room 16. He opened the door and stepped inside. And I felt cold.

I wasn’t just watching anymore. It felt like… I was in it. Like my thoughts had shifted into his. The room inside was familiar. Too familiar. Cracked white walls. A humming mini-fridge. A ceiling fan with a broken blade. A desk with an old laptop and a blue chair. My room. Down to the scratch on the window frame and the photo of me and my sister at the carnival. This was my apartment. The one I lived in right now. On the desk was my journal — the one I kept locked. In the dream, the man opened it. One line was written over and over in shaky block letters:

“They are watching you too.”

I ripped off the headset. Hit the emergency alert button. First time I ever used it. No one came.

The next day, I demanded answers. I found Dr. Kalder, the lead researcher.

“What the hell was that last dream?” I asked. “That was my apartment. That journal— I’ve never shown anyone that.”

She didn’t blink. “ID# 616-T,” I said. “Who is that?”

She stared at me for a long time. Then said, calmly: “You were told not to ask questions.”

“But that’s me, isn’t it? I’m the subject. You’ve been watching me.”

A pause. A smile.

“No,” she said. “You’re just the receiver.”

Then she walked away.

After that, things got worse.

The dreams weren’t random anymore. They all started in that hallway. The same man. The same doors. Room 17. Room 18. Room 19...

Every night, he’d open the next door. And each time, it was another place from my past. The classroom where I wet my pants in first grade. The church basement where I found my uncle passed out drunk. My sister’s old bedroom, the night after the accident.

Sometimes he just stood there and stared. Other times, he’d whisper things. Once, he looked directly into the dream feed and said: “Why did you lie?”

I stopped sleeping. I’d go home, lie in bed, and feel like I was still being watched. The black van across the street. The flicker of the hallway camera even though no one passed.

I started having dreams outside of the lab — dreams that felt like the ones I saw at work. Same angle. Same man. Except now, I wasn’t sure who was dreaming whom.

Then came shift #42.

The hallway ended. No more doors. The man stood at the last one: Room 23. Inside, it was pitch black. For a long time, he just stood there. Then he stepped in. And the feed went dead. A message appeared on the screen: “MIMIR SYNC TERMINATED: ACCESSING DEEPCORE FILES.”

Another screen popped up. A split feed. On the left: a live camera view — the break room, where I sat on lunch 20 minutes ago. On the right: an old video, grainy black-and-white footage.

I watched myself… sleeping.

Years younger. Electrodes on my head. Someone whispering to me off camera: “You’re going to forget this. It’s better if you forget.” I threw off the headset. Ran down the hallway. The door I thought led outside… was gone. In its place: a white hallway. With numbered doors.

Room 1. Room 2. Room 3…

I don’t know how long I’ve been here now. Some nights I think I’ve escaped. I wake up in my bed. The world looks normal. Until I spot the man in the hoodie across the street. Until I turn on my phone and see a recording of my dream from the night before. I think the job was never real. I think I never left the lab. Or maybe I never applied in the first place.

I just wanted a paycheck. What I got was a front-row seat to my own breakdown. And if anyone’s reading this — if this shows up on your feed — ask yourself: When was the last time you really woke up?

Because I’m starting to think some of us are still dreaming.

 

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Credits