You Break the One Unbreakable Rule
I.
The rule was simple.
Never open Door 7.
Not during storms, not on birthdays, not when the moon blushed red or dogs howled at 3 a.m. The door stood at the end of a dim corridor in Eldhollow House, a place that itself felt like a forgotten organ in the body of time. Everyone who lived in Eldhollow learned this rule early—some from whispers, some from warnings carved into the wood near the threshold: What’s behind is not for you.
I moved in on a dare.
After my divorce and the death of my dog (in that order, both brutal), the silence of Eldhollow appealed to me. A friend joked that I could rent the flat in the East Wing for the price of my heartbreak—and she wasn’t wrong. The landlord was an old man with skin like bark and breath that rattled. He handed me the brass key and said nothing until my hand touched the knob.
“Don’t open Door 7.”
That was all.
No threats. No superstition. Just a flat statement, like telling someone not to stare at the sun.
II.
Weeks passed.
Eldhollow grew on me like moss on stone. The other tenants, few as they were, spoke little and passed like shadows. A violinist lived on the floor below; a girl who never left her room lived above. The walls whispered, but not loud enough to disturb. There was peace in the quiet.
But the door.
Door 7.
It was just there. Plain, wooden, old. No ornate carvings or glowing sigils. No signs of horror. It didn’t even creak ominously. Yet something about its presence itched. Not the way a wound itches, but the way an unsolved riddle gnaws at a clever mind.
Sometimes at night, I’d wake and feel that it had moved closer.
III.
The breaking point came on the 49th night.
Not sure why that number stuck. Maybe it was the dream.
In it, I was a child again. My mother held me close and said, “Not all cages have bars. Some have questions.” I looked up, and her face had melted away. Where her mouth should’ve been was a keyhole.
I woke, sweating, heart racing like a war drum. The hallway outside my door glowed a dull gold. Not lamp light. Not moonlight. Something older. Something else.
The corridor led to Door 7.
My feet moved before my mind could catch them. Bare soles on cold wood. Breath catching like a thief in my throat. I stood before it. The air buzzed like a held-in scream.
I didn’t hesitate.
I broke the rule.
I opened Door 7.
IV.
Inside was not a room.
It was a corridor of mirrors. Floor to ceiling, infinite reflections. Each step I took was echoed by a thousand me’s, walking alongside, ahead, behind.
But they weren’t all me.
One version of me had no eyes. Another walked backwards, smiling. A third was weeping blood, his mouth stitched shut. Each reflection carried a different fate, a different outcome, a different decision made.
Then I heard her.
“Finally.”
The voice came from everywhere, but I saw her in none of the mirrors.
“I’ve been waiting,” she said.
A shadow stepped out from behind one reflection, though it had not moved. It was a woman—barefoot, in a red dress that flickered like flame. Her eyes were like eclipses. She smiled, and I felt my mind pull back like a tide.
“Who—what are you?” I asked.
She looked at me the way a god might look at a whisper.
“I’m the cost of your curiosity.”
V.
I tried to run.
The corridor shifted, mirrors turning into windows showing scenes from my life. Not memories. Alterations.
One showed me in a hospital bed, dead by overdose. Another, in a cell, blood on my hands. A third, standing on stage, applauded, finally loved and understood—but the audience wore masks of grief.
I fell to my knees.
“I didn’t know—”
“You did,” she said, kneeling beside me. “You always knew. But you wanted more. You broke the rule, not because you had to... but because you believed you were the exception.”
Her finger touched my forehead.
The world blinked.
VI.
I woke in my apartment.
Door 7 was closed. Locked. Silent.
I tried to scream. Nothing came.
I looked in the mirror.
My reflection didn’t move.
It just stared.
VII.
Days passed, or years. Time has become irrelevant.
My reflection began to speak without me. Whispering things I never said aloud. Telling secrets I’d buried so deep even I forgot them. I screamed at it. Punched the glass. It laughed.
Sometimes, in my reflection’s eyes, I see her.
I’ve tried to warn others. I carved into the door. I taped messages to it. I screamed at tenants in the halls. They think I’m mad. Maybe I am.
Maybe that’s the final curse.
That you become the warning for others.
VIII.
One night, I heard knocking on Door 7.
Not from the outside.
From within.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Soft. Rhythmic. Like breathing.
I stood before it again. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it all over again, deeper this time, stitched into my marrow.
But the voice was soft and desperate.
"Please... let me out. I'm you."
IX.
So here I write this, reader, stranger, curious soul.
If you're in Eldhollow...
If you're near Door 7...
If you see the etching that warns you...
Don’t be like me.
Because the rule was never a threat.
It was a kindness.
And I broke it.
[The story ends here—but the door remains.]
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