The Threshold: A Short Story
When the Room Chooses You
The first time it happened, I was late for work. The front door of my apartment stuck, as it always did in the damp months, and I yanked it open with a curse. The hallway beyond should have smelled of stale coffee and Mrs. Garvey’s lavender diffuser. Instead, there was a sharp tang of pine and something sweeter—honey, maybe. I stepped through, and the light shifted, not the flicker of the building’s dying fluorescents but a warm, slanting glow, like late afternoon through a window I didn’t own.
I turned back, expecting the chipped green paint of my doorframe, but it was gone. In its place stood a wooden arch, weathered and moss-eaten, opening onto a forest path I’d never seen. My apartment—its sagging couch, the unpaid bills on the counter—was nowhere. I blinked, and the hallway snapped back: the buzz of the lights, the faint hum of a TV two floors up. I told myself it was stress, or the cheap wine from last night, and hurried to the subway.
That was three months ago. It’s happened nine times since.
The doors don’t care where I am. The bodega on 7th, its bell jingling as I pushed through, spat me into a room of mirrors, each reflecting a version of me I didn’t recognize—older, sharper, one with a scar across her cheek. I stumbled back, and there was the bodega again, the cashier eyeing me like I’d tried to steal something. At the office, the break room door once opened onto a cliffside, waves crashing below, salt stinging my nose. I stood there, coffee mug trembling, until a coworker called my name and the beige walls returned.
I’ve stopped telling people. My sister said it sounded like a panic attack; my therapist prescribed breathing exercises. But I know what I saw. What I felt. The air changes. The weight of it. And every time, I’m not stepping out—I’m stepping in, as if the rooms I leave are the ones choosing to let me go.
Last night, it was the bedroom door. I’d been restless, the city too loud beyond my window, and I got up for water. The knob turned easily, and there it was: not my dim living room but a parlor, all velvet curtains and candlelight, the kind you’d see in a period drama. A woman sat at a piano, her back to me, playing something soft and uneven. Her hair was pinned up, dark against a pale neck. She didn’t turn, but I felt her awareness, like a draft across my skin.
I should’ve run. Instead, I stepped forward. The floor creaked, and she stopped playing. Her head tilted, just enough to show the curve of a jaw, and she said, “You’re early.” Her voice was low, familiar in a way that made my stomach twist. I opened my mouth to answer, but the door swung shut behind me—not a slam, just a click—and I was back in my apartment, staring at the peeling paint of my living room wall.
I haven’t slept since. I keep thinking about her words. You’re early. As if she’d been waiting. As if every door I’ve opened—the forest, the mirrors, the cliff—was hers too, a threshold she’d crossed before me. I wonder if I’ve been leaving rooms at all, or if I’ve been walking deeper into hers, each step a little closer to whatever she’s playing out on that piano.
This morning, I stood at my front door, hand on the knob, and listened. No pine, no honey—just the muffled honk of traffic. I turned it anyway. The hallway was there, same as always, but I swear I saw it ripple, just for a second, like a curtain settling. I stepped through, and Mrs. Garvey waved from her doorway, her lavender clouding the air. I waved back, my pulse loud in my ears.
I don’t know what happens when I’m not early anymore. When I’m right on time.
Nice!! I want to know what happens next!!! Perfect.
Yes indeed, another keeper. I grew up with short stories, loving every word. Ray Bradberry comes to mind now, again you still hold your own uniqueness. Thank you for sharing.