The Red Door

Ansel Smith ran his hand through his grey beard, his fingers trembling as he stepped out of the night. The hallway that greeted him was impossibly long, impossibly white. The light — bright, clinical, overwhelming — seemed to seep from the very air, no source in sight. It wasn’t the kind of light that lit your way. No, this light felt invasive, like it was burrowing into his skin, crawling behind his eyes.

The hallway stretched on, stretching beyond what felt right. The walls, floor, and ceiling were smooth, sterile, like a perfect, seamless piece of white marble. No shadows, no seams, no dirt. It was the kind of place you’d expect to be cold — lifeless. But it wasn’t. The air was still. Heavy.

And at the end of it, the red door waited.

His heart stuttered in his chest, an uncomfortable flutter that pulled his breath short. Is that the one?

It had to be.

The hallway behind him stretched back toward a void of white, and the door he’d come through — had he come through one? — was gone. He swallowed, his throat dry, trying to convince himself this was nothing more than a dream. But that door. That damn red door. He could see every inch of it, the bright, polished brass knob, the grain in the wood, the way it seemed to hum, just on the edge of hearing.

He shouldn’t be here.

Ansel took a step back, his socks sliding slightly on the floor. His heart pounded louder in his ears as the memory of his father’s warning came rushing back, like a tide dragging him under.

“Ansel, you listen to me. If you ever find yourself in a dream and you see the red door, you run. You don’t think about it, you don’t stop to wonder — you run. Do you hear me?”

Eight-year-old Ansel had nodded then, wide-eyed, but he didn’t understand. Not really. How could he? His father’s voice had cracked with fear, the kind of fear that didn’t belong in a parent’s voice.

“Why, Dad? What’s behind it?”

His father’s eyes had darted to the closet door in Ansel’s bedroom, as if expecting something to step out of the shadows at any moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “They think I’m you. They’re looking for you, Ansel. They always have been. But you’re the keystone. The only thing standing between them and us.”

Keystone? What did that even mean?

Before Ansel could ask, his father’s face had gone blank. His pupils dilated, swallowing the green of his irises before he collapsed to the floor, lifeless. The doctors had called it an aneurysm. But Ansel knew better. Even as a child, he’d known.

And now, here he was. Fifty-five years later. Staring down the red door that had haunted his father’s warnings and his own nightmares ever since. His father had been in a coma since that night, never aging, never changing. Never waking. He hadn’t aged a day, but he hadn’t lived either. It wasn’t natural. None of it was.

Ansel’s breath hitched. The door loomed ahead, and behind him, the hallway was shrinking. The seamless white walls closed in, inching closer. He was running out of space. The breathless panic that had been simmering in his chest all these years now flared like a wildfire.

Run!

But where? There was no door behind him anymore, no escape route. The walls, smooth and perfect, had closed off his retreat.

He turned back to the red door, the distance somehow shorter now, the door larger. He reached for the knob, though the muscles in his arm felt weak, resisting. A faint sound reached him from the other side — a low hum, like a distant chant. The sound wound its way into his bones, vibrating in time with the frantic beat of his heart.

This is wrong.

He pulled his hand back. He shouldn’t touch that door. He shouldn’t be here. But his feet betrayed him, inching forward. His mind raced, spinning out in a thousand directions. Is this a dream? A nightmare? Or something else? His father had warned him, but hadn’t he just been a child then? Kids get scared. Parents say things. But this… this felt like more than a memory.

He took another step, closer now, his hand brushing the brass knob.

The chanting from beyond the door grew louder, a rhythmic beat that set his teeth on edge. It wasn’t just sound anymore — it was inside him, pulsing like a second heartbeat, synchronized with his own.

“Ansel, no!” His father’s voice rang in his head, but this time, it wasn’t a memory. It was clearer, louder, like he was right there, standing behind him. Ansel whipped around, but the hallway was empty. Nothing but the bright white, pressing in on him.

He turned back toward the red door, his hand trembling as it closed around the knob. The metal was cool, but not in a comforting way. It felt like the chill of a morgue, the final cold before the heat of life is extinguished forever.

Run!

But it was too late. His body moved on instinct. The knob turned, and the door swung open without a sound.

Darkness.

Not the kind of darkness that comes with night, or when you close your eyes. No, this darkness was alive, swallowing the light, devouring everything in its path. And yet, he could see.

His father was there, strapped to a table, surrounded by beings too tall, too still to be human. Their skin was an earthy brown, their hair an unnatural platinum, and from their torsos sprouted six arms, each moving independently yet perfectly synchronized. They hovered around his father like surgeons over a patient, their hands probing, pulling.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Ansel stumbled forward, his pulse racing. One of the creatures turned toward him, its eyes burning blue — blue like the flame of a gas stove, intense and consuming. He had to look away. Instinct told him not to stare too long.

“Keystone,” the creature said, its voice low and mechanical, vibrating through the air. The others turned in unison, and the word echoed through them, spreading like wildfire.

“Keystone. Keystone.”

They began to move, their limbs shifting unnaturally, their gaze fixed on Ansel. Their movements were wrong, too fluid, too fast. His father’s voice broke through the chanting, desperate now.

“Ansel, wake up! You have to wake up! They’re coming for you!”

But the chanting was louder, drilling into his skull. The creatures were closer now, surrounding him, their arms reaching. The air vibrated with their words, their demand.

Keystone.

The room pulsed with it, their voices fusing into one, their eyes burning into him. His heart thundered in his chest, the fear building like a storm inside him.

And then, a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Familiar.

“Ansel! Wake up!”

He jerked, his eyes snapping open. Sunlight poured through the window. But the chanting… it was still there. Faint, but persistent.

“Just a dream, son.” His father’s voice was calm now, soothing. His hand brushed through Ansel’s hair, like he used to when Ansel was small.

“No, Dad.” Ansel’s voice was barely a whisper. “They know. They’re coming.”

His father frowned, a worried line creasing his brow. “Ansel, it was a nightmare. No one’s coming.”

But Ansel could hear them, still chanting, louder with every second. He threw the covers back, his legs shaking as he leapt from the bed. He could feel the creatures — they were close, so close now. He raced to his father’s office, flinging open the drawer and pulling out the pearl-handled pistol.

“Ansel!” His father’s voice was sharp, frantic now. “Put that gun down!”

But Ansel shook his head. The weight of the gun felt cold in his hand, too real to ignore. “I have to stop them. I have to keep them out. It’s the only way.”

“What are you talking about?” His father’s voice cracked, the desperation plain in his face. “It was just a dream! Please, Ansel. You’re only eight. Just put the gun down.”

“Sixty-three years.” Ansel’s voice trembled, the weight of the gun pressing against his temple. “I had a good life, Dad. Thank you.”

The chanting roared now, a tidal wave of voices pounding in his head.

Keystone. Keystone. Keystone.

Ansel squeezed his eyes shut, and in that final moment, whether it was his father’s hand or one of the creatures reaching for him, it didn’t matter.

He pulled the trigger.

And saved the world.