BEHIND CLOSED DOORS — PART 6. - by ☘️Baby 🍀 Joy ☘️

“THE GIRL OUTSIDE” For several seconds, nobody moved. Amara stared at the black door. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely hear herself breathe. “Open it,” she whispered. Her aunt shook her head. “No.” Amara turned slowly. “You just told me that girl is my future.” “I know what I said.” “Then open the door!” Her aunt grabbed her wrist. “Amara, listen to me. Whatever you see on the other side of that door, do not let it touch you.” Amara pulled her hand away. “Why?” Her aunt's lips trembled. “Because the last time it did, you stopped growing older.” Amara went still. “What?” Before her aunt could explain, three knocks came from the other side of the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Then a little voice sang softly. “Amara has a secret…” Amara's blood ran cold. “Amara keeps it deep…” The voice giggled. “Amara closed her eyes…” A pause. “And left a girl to weep.” Amara stumbled backward. She knew that rhyme. She didn't know how she knew it, but she did. She had heard it before. A long time ago. In a place she couldn't remember. Her aunt began whispering something under her breath. “What are you saying?” Amara demanded. Her aunt looked at her with frightened eyes. “A prayer.” “For what?” “To keep her asleep.” Suddenly, the knocking stopped. A small voice came through the door. “Aunty?” Her aunt froze. The voice sounded different now. Not playful. Not threatening. It sounded hurt. “Aunty, it's cold out here.” Amara looked at her aunt. “Who is she?” Her aunt covered her ears. “Don't answer her.” “But she's just a child!” “No, Amara!” Her aunt's scream echoed through the hallway. “THAT IS NOT A CHILD!” Silence. Then the little girl outside began to cry. And Amara did something nobody expected. She walked toward the door. “Amara, stop!” She ignored her aunt. The closer she got, the colder the hallway became. When she reached the silver handle, she noticed something carved into the wood. Four words. ONE GIRL MUST REMAIN. Amara touched the letters. Immediately, a memory flashed through her mind. A birthday cake. Seven candles. Her mother kneeling in front of her. And a little girl standing behind her, whispering into her ear. “When we grow up, we must never forget each other.” Amara gasped and snatched her hand away. “No…” The handle began to turn by itself. From the other side, the little girl whispered: “You promised.” Amara's eyes filled with tears. “Promised what?” “To come back for me.” Her aunt rushed forward and pulled her away from the door. “It's trying to trick you!” Amara struggled against her grip. “Why does it know everything about me?” “Because it has your memories!” “Then give them back!” Her aunt stared at her. For the first time, Amara saw something worse than fear in her eyes. Guilt. “What did you do?” Amara whispered. Her aunt opened her mouth. But before she could speak, the black door creaked open. Just an inch. A tiny hand slipped through the gap. Then a second hand appeared. And slowly, the little girl squeezed her way into the hallway. She stood barefoot on the floor, wearing the same clothes Amara remembered from the photograph. Her eyes were red from crying. She looked at Amara. “I waited for you.” Amara couldn't move. The girl took one step closer. “You said you'd come back before the candles went out.” Amara shook her head. “I don't understand.” The girl pointed at Amara's chest. “You took my place.” Amara's breath caught. Behind her, her aunt whispered: “Please don't make me do this again.” The little girl suddenly turned toward her. “YOU ALREADY DID!” The lights flickered. Every door in the hallway slammed shut at once. The little girl looked back at Amara. “They told you that you disappeared for three days, didn't they?” Amara nodded slowly. The girl laughed through her tears. “You were gone for three days.” She stepped closer. “But I was trapped here for twenty-one years.” Amara stared at her. “That's impossible.” “Is it?” The girl raised her hand. On her wrist was a small, faded birthmark. Amara looked down at her own wrist. The same mark. In the same place. Her knees nearly gave way. The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out something small. A silver key. Amara recognized it immediately. It was the key her aunt always wore around her neck. Except this one was old and covered in scratches. The little girl held it out. “Ask your aunt what happened on your seventh birthday.” Amara turned. Her aunt was crying silently. “Ask her why your mother begged her to choose.” Amara's voice trembled. “Choose what?” The little girl answered. “Which daughter she wanted to save.” Amara stared at her aunt. “Daughter?” Her aunt covered her mouth. The girl took another step forward. “You weren't born alone, Amara.” The hallway seemed to tilt. “You had a sister.” Amara shook her head repeatedly. “No. No, I don't have a sister.” “You did.” “What's her name?” The little girl smiled sadly. “You know my name.” Amara searched her mind. Nothing. Only darkness. Only the sound of someone crying behind a locked door. Then the girl leaned close and whispered a name. A name Amara had never heard before. Yet the moment it entered her ears, every light in the house exploded. And from somewhere upstairs, a woman screamed: “AMARA! DON'T LET HER TELL YOU HER NAME!” The little girl stepped away. For the first time, she looked genuinely afraid. “She's awake,” she whispered. Amara turned toward the staircase. “Who's awake?” Her aunt dropped to her knees. “No, no, no…” A slow set of footsteps began descending from upstairs. One step. Then another. Then another. Amara looked toward the darkness. A woman's silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a pale dress. Her hair fell over her face. And in her right hand, she held a photograph. The same photograph Amara had found downstairs. The woman stopped. Then she lifted her head. It was Amara's mother. Or the woman Amara had always believed was her mother. She looked directly at the little girl. And spoke. “Why have you let her remember?” The little girl began trembling. Amara stepped between them. “Don't talk to her like that!” The woman slowly smiled. “Oh, Amara.” She descended one more step. “You still don't understand.” “Understand what?” The woman's eyes moved toward the black door. “Which one of you I brought home.” Amara's mouth went dry. Behind her, the little girl grabbed her hand. And whispered the words that made Amara realize the nightmare was far from over. “Amara… she's not our mother.” The woman stopped smiling. Then she looked at Amara and said: “Ask your aunt which one of you died that night.” TO BE CONTINUED… 🖤

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