BEHIND CLOSED DOORS — PART 2. - by ☘️Baby 🍀 Joy ☘️

“You've been behind that door before.” Amara stared at her aunt. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then Amara laughed. Not because it was funny. Because she didn't know what else to do. “I've never been behind that door.” Her aunt didn't respond. “Aunty?” Still nothing. Amara stepped closer. “You said you've never let me near it.” “I said you weren't supposed to remember.” The words came out so quietly that Amara almost missed them. Her smile disappeared. “What?” Her aunt looked toward the black door. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then came another knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Amara's aunt grabbed her wrist. “Your room. Now.” “But—” “NOW.” Something in her aunt's voice made Amara obey. They hurried down the hallway. Just before Amara entered her room, she looked back. The black door was still closed. But the silver handle was slowly turning. Her aunt slammed Amara's bedroom door shut. Then she locked it. Amara stared at her. “You're going to tell me everything.” Her aunt sat on the edge of the bed. For the first time, she looked old. Tired. Almost defeated. “I should have told you years ago.” “Told me what?” Her aunt took a shaky breath. “When your mother died, you were six.” “I know.” “No.” She looked directly at Amara. “You don't know.” Amara said nothing. “Your mother didn't die in an accident.” The room suddenly felt colder. “What are you saying?” “She disappeared.” Amara frowned. “They found her car.” “Yes.” “They found her things.” “Yes.” “They said—” “They lied.” Silence. Amara's heart began beating faster. “Why?” Her aunt looked toward the bedroom door. “Because your mother went through that door.” Amara felt the air leave her lungs. “No.” “She was looking for something.” “What?” Her aunt hesitated. “You.” A cold shiver travelled down Amara's back. “That doesn't make sense.” “It wasn't supposed to.” Her aunt reached beneath the bed and pulled out a small wooden box. The box was covered in dust. She placed it on the mattress. Amara stared at it. “What is that?” “Something your mother left behind.” Her aunt opened the box. Inside was a photograph. Amara picked it up. It was old. The picture showed the hallway. The same hallway. The same black door. And standing in front of it— was Amara. She dropped the photograph. “No.” Her aunt didn't move. Amara picked it up again with trembling fingers. The little girl in the photograph looked exactly like her. Same face. Same dress. Same tiny scar above her eyebrow. But there was something wrong. The photograph had a date written on the back. 2012. Amara stared at it. “I was six.” Her aunt nodded. “Exactly.” “But I don't remember this.” “I know.” Amara looked at her. “Why?” Her aunt's eyes filled with tears. “Because when you came back out…” She swallowed. “You weren't the same.” Before Amara could ask what she meant, something scratched the other side of the bedroom door. Slowly. Three times. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Her aunt stood up. “Don't open that door.” Amara stared at the handle. “Aunty…” “What?” “There's someone outside.” Her aunt's face changed. “No.” Another scratch. Then silence. Amara whispered, “Who is it?” Her aunt shook her head. “Don't ask.” A voice came from the hallway. A little girl's voice. Soft. Almost playful. “Amara?” Her aunt covered her mouth. The voice came again. “Amara, I found your mother.” Amara's eyes widened. Her aunt grabbed her hand. “Don't listen.” But the voice continued. “She wants you to come home.” Amara looked at the bedroom door. “Home?” Her aunt's grip tightened. “This isn't your home.” The words barely left her mouth before the black door at the end of the hallway slammed open. BANG. The bedroom door shook. Then everything went silent. No footsteps. No whispers. Nothing. Amara slowly turned toward her aunt. “What happens if I open it?” Her aunt looked at her. And this time, there was no fear in her eyes. There was sadness. “You'll remember.” “Remember what?” Her aunt whispered, “Why your mother never came back.” Amara looked at the door. Then at the photograph. Then back at her aunt. She reached for the handle. Her aunt didn't stop her. And just before Amara opened the door— her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered. For several seconds, there was only breathing. Then a woman's voice whispered: “Amara…” She froze. She knew that voice. Her mother's. “Don't open the black door.” Amara's eyes filled with tears. “Mom?” The voice went silent. Then came one final sentence. “Because I'm still inside.” The call ended. Amara slowly looked down the hallway. The black door was wide open. And standing inside it… was a little girl wearing the exact same dress Amara had been wearing in the photograph. The girl smiled. Then pointed behind Amara. Amara turned. Her aunt was gone. And the bedroom door

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