There’s a door in an old, neglected house on the edge of town.

The house itself is

nearly falling apart—windows cracked, paint peeling, the roof sagging under the
weight of years. But the door? The door stands straight and proud, as though it’s
untouched by time. It’s made of oak, darkened with age, and has a single brass knob
that catches the light whenever the wind moves through the trees outside.

They call it the "Door Knob at A4."

No one knows what the “A4” means—whether it was just a label left behind by the
last owner, or something more. The town’s folks have their theories, but none of
them really matter. The door itself is what people talk about.

The door has been there for as long as anyone can remember, standing resolutely in
the corner of the room, with its knob polished to a mirror shine. It’s not that
it’s particularly special—at least, not to the untrained eye. It’s just... there.
But for reasons unknown, people have always avoided it. They’ll walk around it,
give it a wary glance, but never, ever touch the knob.

Not that anyone is ever allowed to.

There was once a time, many years ago, when a young boy named Thomas lived in the
house. He was an adventurous spirit, always curious, always exploring. He would run
around the rooms, his feet heavy on the wooden floors, his laughter echoing through
the empty hallways. But no matter how much he wanted to, he was never allowed near
that door. His parents, though kind, had their reasons. They would always tell him,
"Never touch the door knob, Thomas. Don’t you dare."

But one day, curiosity got the best of him. The sun had just begun to set, casting
long shadows across the dusty floors. His parents had gone into town, and Thomas
found himself standing in front of the door, looking at the brass knob. It
glistened in the dying light, almost as if it was calling him. A whisper of
something—something deep within the house—seemed to echo in his mind.

He reached out, trembling just a bit, and wrapped his hand around the knob.

The moment his fingers touched it, the world around him seemed to shift. The air
grew thick, and a soft creak sounded from the hinges. The door opened, revealing an
endless blackness beyond. It wasn’t like a shadow or a room. It was just nothing.
And yet, Thomas felt drawn to it.

He stepped forward, crossing the threshold, and found himself standing in a vast,
empty void. No walls, no ground, no sky—just a deep, suffocating emptiness. But
somewhere in that space, he could hear a voice. Soft at first, barely a whisper.
But then it grew louder.

"Thomas... Thomas..."

He looked around, but saw no one. Just the endless darkness stretching on forever.
Panic surged in his chest. He tried to step back, but the door was gone. There was
nothing but the abyss.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the door was back. The room. The
house. His feet were on solid ground once more. He was standing in front of the
same wooden door, the brass knob now cool under his fingers, as if nothing had
happened at all.

But he knew something had.

When his parents returned, they found him sitting in front of the door, pale and
silent. They asked what happened, but Thomas could only shake his head, the memory
slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Years passed, and Thomas grew older, but the door never left his mind. He couldn’t
explain it—couldn’t remember everything that had happened—but he never dared touch
the knob again. Even when he moved away from the house, he never spoke of it to
anyone.

The house itself was eventually abandoned. The walls crumbled, the roof caved in,
and nature began to reclaim the land. But the door? The door at A4? It stayed.

Some nights, when the wind howls just right, you can hear the soft click of a door
opening. Some say it’s the door trying to lure someone back, as it had with Thomas
all those years ago. Others say the door is simply waiting—waiting for the right
person to answer the call.

And if you ever find yourself in the ruins of that old house, standing in front of
that same door, you might feel the temptation. You might reach for that brass knob,
warm and familiar beneath your touch.

But remember the story of Thomas.

Because once you open the door at A4, you may never be the same.