Lately, I’ve been thinking about how rusty creativity can get if you don’t use it.
Like a hinge that hasn’t been opened in years. It doesn’t break, it just stiffens.
So I’m trying to give myself little weekly prompts, not because I think they’ll lead to something perfect, but because I want to keep the hinge moving.
And I thought… maybe you’d like to write along with me! No rules. Just a place to stretch your imagination.
This week’s prompt is: Write about a door that should never be opened.
Before reading on – take a moment to write something down yourself. Then feel free to come back and read what I took from this exercise.
If this prompt isn’t up your alley… then by all means, keep reading.
Grandma’s Door
The first time I saw it, I thought it was a mistake.
It didn’t match the rest of the hallway. No trim, no paint, just raw wood weathered like it had been left out in the rain. The walls around it were smooth, freshly painted, and too bright under the overhead light. The door looked… tired. Like it had been standing there long before the rest of the house was built, and the house had been forced to grow around it.
There was no knob, just a single iron keyhole. When I pressed my ear to the wood, I didn’t hear anything. No movement. No sound at all. It was the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle – the kind of silence where you realize you can hear your own pulse.
I asked my grandma about it once, when I was around eleven or twelve. She just smiled, shook her head and said, “Some things are better left shut.” That was it. No other explanation.
In that moment, I wondered if there was something personal about the warning. Something she didn’t want me to know.
We didn’t talk much about Grandpa. She never mentioned where he was buried. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever asked. An intuitive pull brought him to mind, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he ever knew what was behind grandma’s door.
Grandma’s door… Grandma’s door.
Door.
Door.
Door.
They say curiosity is stronger than hate, you know. Stronger than desire. It’s all consuming.
Afterall, that is why Pandora opened the box… because she was curious. Because she needed to know.
And all I could think about was that door.
Years passed; grandma crossed to the other side. And now I find myself standing in front of it again, the same strange stillness in the air. My hand rests where a doorknob should be, and I feel the faintest pull. Like the door is breathing, and I’ve just interrupted it.
The hallway feels longer than I remember, stretching behind me like it’s trying to keep me here. The overhead light hums, but dimmer now, as if the door is drinking it in. There’s a smell too – faint, but sharp, like metal and wet stone. Something is a little different this time. I swear I can hear a slow, deliberate sound from somewhere deep inside: not a knock, not a scrape, but something softer… like the sound of weight shifting.
For a moment, I imagine leaning down, peering through that tear-shaped keyhole.
I know I shouldn’t. My grandma’s words echo like they’ve been waiting all these years for this exact moment. But the pull is stronger now, vibrating through the air, whispering in a language I almost recognize.
So, I kneel.
Lowering my face toward the keyhole. The wood feels cold under my fingertips. I expect to see nothing, just the void of a locked, empty space.
And at first, I do.
But then the darkness shifts.
And from somewhere just beyond it, I hear the faint sound of a lock turning… *click.*
If you participated in this prompt, I’d LOVE to see what you came up with!
Want to share it with me? Head over to the Discussion Board, and add a new topic with “Writing Prompt” at the beginning of the title.
Thanks for being nerdy with me.❤️
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