The Static Between Stations - Chapter 8: The Closet Door

By the eighth night, I knew I could no longer ignore it.

I had tried everything—unplugging the radio, leaving the house, even covering it with a heavy blanket—but at 2:14 a.m., it always returned. Always.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, heart hammering, hands trembling. My eyes stayed fixed on the closet door across the room. Normally, it was a simple wooden panel, a mundane boundary between my bedroom and forgotten clothes. But tonight, it felt alive. Waiting.

I didn’t hear the first whisper. At first, there was only silence, broken by the soft creak of the floorboards, the sigh of the wind outside, the faint ticking of the clock. And then—softly, impossibly close—the voice of the Caller spoke again.

“Brian…”

The sound came not from the radio, which sat dead on the nightstand, but from inside the closet.

I froze.

The door was closed. Locked in place by nothing, yet I felt a presence pressing from the other side. A cold that wasn’t just air, sliding under the crack beneath the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” it said.

I wanted to speak, to scream, to throw myself across the room, but my body refused. The words seeped into my mind directly, bypassing my ears, embedding themselves in my skull.

Slowly, trembling, I reached for the doorknob. The metal felt icy against my skin.

“Don’t,” the voice whispered.

I froze again. But the door moved. Just a hair’s breadth, then stopped. I could feel the pressure from inside, something pushing outward, testing the boundary, like it was aware of my fear.

The room pulsed with static. Not from the radio this time, but from everywhere at once. From the walls, the floor, the very air. A thousand whispers overlapped, all urging me, beckoning, calling:

“Open. Open. Open.”

I stepped back, but the pressure followed. A soft scratching, nails—or fingernails—tracing the inside of the wooden door. The sound sent my stomach lurching.

“You belong here,” the Caller hissed. “And you will join us.”

The whispers inside the closet grew louder, forming words I couldn’t ignore. We’ve waited for you. We’ve waited so long. Come inside.

I stumbled backward, crashing into the dresser. My hands shook uncontrollably as the static rose to a roar, filling the room, filling my ears, filling my mind. My vision blurred; I saw shapes behind the closet door—dark, writhing shadows, pressing against the wood.

I fell to my knees. “No… please… stop,” I begged.

The door creaked again, opening just a fraction. That was all it took. My body screamed at me to run, but my legs were locked in terror. I realized with sickening clarity that if the door opened fully, I would see them. And worse, they would see me.

“Come,” the Caller said softly. “You’re ready now.”

Something cold brushed against my ankle, climbing slowly up my leg like smoke made flesh. My heart slammed in my chest. The whispers turned into laughter, soft at first, then rising into a horrible crescendo that filled the walls, ceiling, and floor.

I wanted to scream, to fight, to break something—but there was no strength left. Only the knowledge that whatever was behind that closet door was patient. Eternal. And it had been waiting for me.

And then, the closet door slowly began to open on its own.

Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model