It was supposed to be an ordinary evening.
I was driving home from work, the rain tapping rhythmically against my windshield, when I saw the wreck. A black sedan had skidded off the road, its front end crushed against a tree. Smoke curled from the engine, and the driver’s door hung open.
Instinct took over. I pulled over, heart pounding, and ran to the wreckage.
A man was slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling down his temple. His breathing was ragged, but he was alive.
“Hey, can you hear me?” I asked, shaking his shoulder.
His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, he turned his head toward me, and that’s when I saw his eyes—dark, glassy, full of something I couldn’t quite place. Fear? Regret?
He gripped my wrist with surprising strength. “Take this,” he whispered.
I looked down. He was pressing a folded piece of paper into my palm.
“What is this?” I asked.
He inhaled sharply, as if speaking was painful. “Don’t… trust…” His breath hitched. “Find… the red door.”
Then, his body went limp.
Panic surged through me. “Hey! Stay with me!”
Sirens wailed in the distance, and within minutes, paramedics were pulling me away, taking over. I watched helplessly as they worked on him, but deep down, I already knew.
The man didn’t make it.
I stood in the rain, staring at the soaked paper in my hand. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. There were only four words scrawled inside:
“They know. Run now.”
My stomach twisted. Who knew? Run from what?
I told myself to throw it away. To forget. But something inside me wouldn’t let go.
I had to find the red door.
For the next three days, I obsessed over the note. I scoured news reports, but there was no mention of the man, no details about who he was or what had caused the accident. It was as if he had never existed.
Then, things got strange.
I noticed a black SUV parked outside my apartment building. The same car followed me to work. My phone started acting up—calls dropping, strange interference. Someone was watching me.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I needed answers.
The only clue I had was the red door.
I searched online, checked maps, even wandered around town looking for anything that matched. Nothing. Until one night, a new message appeared in my inbox from an unknown sender.
“Stop searching. You’re in danger.”
My heart pounded. I typed back:
“Who are you?”
No response.
I should have stopped. But I didn’t.
Then, I found it.
A run-down building on the east side of town. Hidden in an alley, its entrance was faded, barely noticeable—except for the door. Painted deep crimson.
My pulse raced. Was this what he meant?
I hesitated, then knocked.
Silence.
Then, the door creaked open.
A woman stood there, her sharp gaze scanning me. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I held up the note. “A man gave me this before he died. He told me to find the red door.”
Her face went pale. She grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside.
The door slammed shut behind us.
And that was the moment I realized—whatever I had just stepped into, there was no going back.
