Creepypasta (Collections)

The Creak of the Doors

THE CREAK OF THE DOORS

You’d be surprised at how certain things trigger these subconscious responses from deep inside you. Involuntary cues that bubble to the surface whenever that certain thing strikes that precise note. For me it was the creak of that damn door. It’d drive me insane, and no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it would never be silent… And just like that, it became a part of my life. Ingrained in my mind, the sound would haunt me from the day we first moved in. I haven’t slept completely for three years because of it.

Three years ago, give or take a month or so, Karen and I moved into our new apartment. The floor plan was simple, a bedroom that’s connected to a bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and designated washer room. Simple, yet effective… Moving in was one of my fondest memories. We ran around the mostly empty space for the majority of the first few hours. The hype of being free and independent in “our” own space was exhilarating. It was later that same night that I first noticed that creaking sound the door to the bathroom made when moved ever so slightly.

“God that’s a horrible sound,” I remember remarking, “The hinges probably need to be greased.”

“Dearest, you nitpick the strangest things, you won’t even notice it in time,” Karen said with a teasing chime.

She always knew how to deal with my quirks.

In time the creaking didn’t subside, nor did my perception of it. Whenever the door was opened or closed the sound would pierce through my ears and dilute my thoughts. Though Karen was wrong about it leaving me, she probably knew that I’d adapt to it. The sound never became less annoying, don’t get me wrong, I still hate it, but my patience for it grew out of necessity. Though even with my increased tolerance the creaking was enough to stir me from slumber whenever Karen rose to use the toilet. Maybe I’d never fully adjust after all. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sprayed grease into those old hinges on that seemingly older door. The owners of this complex must’ve cut some serious corners to have recycled doors, but the price for rent was cheap enough. You get what you paid for.

Now aside from the creaking of this door everything else was perfect, that is until I started to notice the door was taunting me. Sometimes Karen would leave the door open, and the air conditioning would kick on only to move the door. The door would sway slowly and the slight movements were enough to sound the alarm… to make that drawn out creeeeeeak in the dead of night. That sound would scratch at my brain until I rose from the bed and closed the door. Sure enough, like some sick joke, the door would seem to open itself by some force of magic. With one long creak it would torment me… but how? I closed it. The door must not be catching. So, more firmly, I’d close it, and that’d be the end of that.

Every time I had to do this dance with the door, and I’ve done this frequently, I felt a strong sense of unease well up in my chest. It was as though I was five years old again and I was peering into a pitch black hallway. The fear felt reminiscent of those days, and so I pushed it out of my mind… I’m too old to be afraid of the dark still. I’d talk to Karen about these occurrences and my unease with the situation and she’d just jokingly dismiss it, teasing me.

“Oh hunny, should I start checking the bathroom for monsters and oogey boogey?” She’d say with a smile, which faded when she’d see my expression wouldn’t change.

She meant well enough, and usually her humor would be returned with a quip of my own, but this… this was different. I could not shake this feeling. So it was then that we got into the habit of securing that door at night, though that never actually worked. Every night was the same. I’d never fully sleep because of the creak. During the day it posed no threat, outside of annoying me.