Something Behind The Door
Chapter 2
Part 6
The brass key was heavier in her palm than it had been in Maboroshi's.
Yuriko stood before the locked door at the end of the east corridor, where the ceiling sagged slightly and the walls narrowed like the throat of a well. The wallpaper here peeled at the corners, revealing pale slats beneath. No paintings. No windows. The only light came from a single flickering lamp at the junction of the hall.
The door in front of her was tall and plain, but the doorknob bore a faded ribbon—lilac, frayed at the ends—tied in a bow.
She hadn't noticed it earlier.
She hadn't noticed this hallway earlier.
But the key slid in as if it had been waiting.
The click echoed too loudly.
The door creaked open an inch, then another. She pushed gently, letting the darkness breathe out against her.
The room was smaller than she expected. Square. Dust-heavy. A dressing room, perhaps—windowless except for a narrow shuttered slit near the ceiling. Light filtered through in ribbons, striping the room like old film.
Everything inside was gray with age.
There were trunks—six of them—stacked like coffins against the far wall. She approached one, knelt slowly, unlatched the metal catch. Inside: children's clothing. Lace collars, wool cardigans, tiny woolen gloves rolled into pairs. The faint scent of powder and old perfume rose like breath from a grave.
She lifted a small white shoe, size no larger than her palm. The sole was clean. Too clean.
She replaced it carefully and moved on.
To the left stood a narrow vanity with an oval mirror, cracked down the center. On the tabletop: an old powder puff, scattered buttons, a chipped ceramic rabbit, and a lipstick the color of dried blood—worn to a slant, as if still in use.
She leaned toward the mirror.
Only half of her face reflected—the other sliced by the jagged crack. But even in the half she saw, something felt wrong.
The eyes looking back at her were too wide.
The lips didn't part the way hers did.
And when she blinked… the reflection didn't.
It simply stared.
Expressionless.
Waiting.
She backed away.
Her hands felt slick with sweat despite the cold air. Dust clung to her breathing.
A sound creaked behind her.
She turned.
At first she saw only the wall.
Then—movement.
In the corner: a wooden cradle. Low to the ground. Carved with lilies.
She hadn't noticed it when she entered.
And it was moving.
Gently.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Rocking.
She moved toward it slowly, each footfall making the floorboards moan in protest.
No one was in the cradle.
No child.
But the impression of weight remained—in the slight dent in the thin pillow, in the way the blanket dipped in the center.
As if someone had just risen.
Or been removed.
Then her eye caught something on the wall just behind it.
A single photograph, pinned at an angle by a rusted tack.
She stepped closer, heartbeat climbing up into her throat.
The photograph was old. Yellowed, stained. Faded at the corners.
It showed two little girls.
They stood in front of a graveyard gate. One held a black parasol.
One wore a white dress.
The one in white was unmistakable: Yuriko.
But the other girl—
Her hand held Yuriko's tightly.
Her dress matched.
Her pose mirrored.
But her face—
Her face was gone.
Not scratched out. Not blurred by time.
Gone—cleanly, like someone had peeled it away.
Or like it had never been there to begin with.