The Locked Room in My Father’s House

I hadn’t been inside my father’s house in almost eleven years.

Not since the night he disappeared.

No goodbye.
No note.
Nothing.

The police eventually stopped looking.

Last week, the bank finally gave me the keys to sell the property.

I thought the house would be empty.

But the moment I walked inside…

I heard footsteps upstairs.

Slow.
Heavy.
Dragging across the floor.

I froze instantly.

The house smelled like dust and mold.
Nobody should have been there.

I grabbed an old flashlight from the kitchen and followed the sound upstairs.

That’s when I saw the door at the end of the hallway.

The same door my father never allowed anyone to open.

Ever.

It had six locks on it.

And one of them was moving.

From the inside.

Then I heard a weak voice behind the door whisper:

“Please…
don’t let him know you’re here.”

My heart nearly stopped.

Because the voice sounded exactly like my mother.

The same mother who died when I was twelve.

(Part 2 in comments…)

I backed away from the door so fast I hit the wall behind me.

My mother died twenty years ago.

I was at her funeral.

I saw the coffin myself.

Then the voice came again.

Weak.
Terrified.

“Please… he watches the hallway at night.”

My hands started shaking uncontrollably.

I rushed toward the door and tried every key from the ring the bank gave me.

None worked.

Then suddenly…

I heard footsteps downstairs.

Slow.
Heavy.
Getting closer.

Someone was inside the house.

I looked through the upstairs window.

There was a man standing near my car.

Watching the house.

Watching me.

And when he slowly lifted his face toward the window…

I realized it was my father.