The Door with No Number

A young man just moved into a quaint, old apartment building. After signing the lease, he headed to the front desk to collect his keys. The receptionist, a stern woman in her 50s, handed them over with a forced smile. As he turned to leave, her expression darkened.

“One more thing,” she said sharply. “On your floor... there’s a door with no number. Whatever you do... don’t disturb it.”

He paused, puzzled, but shrugged it off. Moving in was his priority.

Hours later, after unpacking and settling into his apartment, curiosity began to gnaw at him. Why would anyone warn him about a door? He hadn’t even noticed it during his move.

The quiet hallway stretched eerily under the dim, flickering lights as he stepped outside. Sure enough, at the far end, there was the door—plain, old, and entirely unmarked. Its paint was chipped, the brass keyhole tarnished.

Against his better judgment, he approached and tried the knob. Locked.

He hesitated but couldn’t resist. Lowering himself to his knees, he pressed his eye to the keyhole.

The apartment beyond was dark and abandoned, covered in thick dust, as though untouched for decades. Faint moonlight streamed through the cracked window, illuminating the bare room.

Just as he was about to pull away, something moved.

A woman stood motionless in the corner, her face pressed against the wall. Her long, tangled black hair cascaded down her back. Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous in the dim light.

A cold chill crawled down his spine. Feeling like an intruder, he quickly stood and hurried back to his apartment, locking the door behind him. He tried to convince himself it was just some strange resident... maybe someone the building had forgotten to mention.

The next night, curiosity overpowered reason once again. The mysterious woman haunted his mind. Who was she? Why was she standing like that?

Unable to resist, he returned to the door with no number. Kneeling down, he peered through the keyhole once more.

Red.

All he could see was a vivid, crimson red filling the entire view. She must’ve covered the keyhole from her side... she knew.

Heart pounding, he stumbled back, sweat chilling his skin. He rushed down to the reception desk.

The receptionist saw the look on his face and sighed heavily. “You looked through the keyhole, didn’t you?”

Breathless, he nodded.

Her eyes darkened with something between sorrow and fear. “That apartment’s been empty for years.”

He froze. “But... I saw a woman in there... Pale skin, long black hair—”

The receptionist’s face went pale. “Did... did you see her eyes?”

Confused, he slowly shook his head. “No... the second time I checked, it was all... red.”

Her voice trembled. “That’s because... they’re red.”

She leaned in and whispered, “Her husband killed her... but they were never normal... Both of them... pale skin... black hair... and eyes... blood-red.”