Sam had been diving for years. Coral reefs, shipwrecks, caves — he thought he’d seen it all.
Until that afternoon.
He was about thirty feet down, drifting over the sandy bottom, when he spotted something strange in the distance. At first, he thought it was a piece of wreckage. But as he swam closer, his heart began to pound.
It wasn’t part of a ship.
It was a door.
A wooden door, upright in the sand, weathered but intact. Barnacles clung to its surface, and seaweed curled lazily around its frame. But it was freestanding — not attached to any walls or structures. Just a door, standing where no door should be.
Sam hovered in front of it, bubbles rising from his regulator. His brain screamed at him to turn back. But curiosity held him there.
Then he noticed something that made his stomach twist.
The door was slightly open. And through the crack, there was light.
Not sunlight.
A warm, golden glow, like a lamp inside someone’s living room. He could almost make out the shape of a chair.
His hand trembled as he reached out. The knob was cold metal beneath his glove. The door creaked, a muffled groan even underwater, as it swung wider.
For a split second, Sam saw it clearly: a cozy room, carpeted, with shelves and photographs on the walls. A place that had no business being at the bottom of the sea.
Then — a shadow moved inside.
Sam jerked back. The door slammed shut with a force that stirred the sand around it.
And when he blinked, it was gone.
The seafloor was empty. Just sand and water stretching into the distance.
Sam floated there, his chest heaving, bubbles rushing upward. He would tell no one.
But weeks later, when he developed his underwater camera, his blood ran cold.
In the corner of one photo — just behind him — stood the door.
Slightly open.
