A Creepy Story from Childhood: Don’t Open the Door, Kid

A scary story about when you’re a kid, and the nights feel endless. The nights when you're counting the hours until your mom returns from her midnight shift. The rules were always the same: don’t open the door, don’t answer the phone. Simple enough, until the silence of the trailer park stretched too long, and the shadows outside seemed to move on their own.
The only comfort came from a red light shining through the window, a glow that cut through the dark like a watchful eye. But that light couldn’t keep everything away. Memories of liquor store parking lots, strangers passing by, and voices that didn’t belong begin to blur with the stillness of the night.
This is a creepy story about childhood fear that stays long after you’ve grown up. It’s about the way certain knocks on the door, certain voices in the dark, can stay with you forever. Don’t Open the Door, Kid is a story of patience, memory, and the things that wait outside when you’re not ready to face them.
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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
I heard Mom moving in the night. It wasn't so
laid out, at least I don't remember it that way.
When it all started, mister param the owner of the lot,
would always turn off the lights at ten p m.
And everything would go pitch black. It was at that
time when we would rely on the porch lights, some working,
some not to navigate around the trailers whenever we came

(00:22):
back from my mom's work and came back late. But
the rent was due and I knew how Mom would
get around those times, so I stayed quiet. Though she
knew I wasn't asleep, she was able to get those
extra shifts and had taken a short nap on the
couch before heading out again. I heard her walk up
to the room we shared I'm leaving now, Mamma loves you,

(00:45):
and then I whispered the rest, don't open the door,
don't turn on the stove, don't answer the phone. My
work numbers on the counter. Had heard her tell me
this a thousand times, but had no idea of just
how important it was to get it right. My name

(01:06):
is Edwin, and here is a scary story. I took
the blanket off my face and shouted by looking at
the clock for just an instant, too fast to remember
what it said. Six hours, I told myself it was
the amount of hours Mom would get at her shift.

(01:27):
I knew when she would come back. The red light
from the old lady's window was shining through the spaces
of the missing blinds on mine. They came from the
lady who lived next to us, Dora. The red light
lets you see in the dark, honey, she told me,
as I watched a group of moths circling at one time,
and I believed her, and I later found out why.

(01:49):
It wasn't that it was red, but that it was light.
It reminded me of the lights from the sign of
the liquor store. When I'd wait and the truck alone,
Dad would take a look a long time in there.
He would come back, real quiet, with an unopened bag
of Cheetos or half a hot pocket and hand it
to me. His face would change, something would be different

(02:10):
in the way that he got in his seat, and
knew the smell on him wasn't perfume, although now I
know that it could have been that too, But I
don't remember the fights anymore. Things got better once he
started picking me up on Saturdays for all of us,
and if you looked at our lives back then, you

(02:30):
would think moomb got the worst of it, keeping up
with me and the babysitters that wouldn't show up. The
many times I got sick and woke up with nightmares.
She never complained when we had to go to the
lawyer's offices and talk with people. Mom stopped all of
it once they started asking me too many questions. It's
just a child, let it go, she would tell them,

(02:51):
and they would say that they needed it for discovery.
But Mom never stopped until suddenly there were no more
visits across town and offices where everyone looked like they
were dressed for a funeral, but it would be just
us now. She knew the effects that the questioning would
have on me, and to this day I thank her
for that, But I still relive them in far and

(03:14):
distant dreams. They come back and then I'm sitting at
a desk, trying to remember these details that I'm sitting
in the car as Dad leaves, that red light shining
into the back seat, as men come and go, drinking
from paper bags, leaning on my dad's truck, some of
them smoking, some speak to each other. Others don't bad

(03:36):
words and spits coming from the same place, like ants
who find sugar, some arriving and some leaving out of
that liquor store. There was one time when I was
all alone out there. I remember it was raining. Dad
had stopped the truck and rushed inside, and he told
me he would be right back and shut the door.
I was able to watch as the drops of water

(03:58):
rolled down the inside of the car and spread where
the glass met the rubber. Thanks to that red light,
the door had been opened for an instant, and it
was enough to stain the window with streaks from the inside.
Car sped on by along that highway behind the parking lot,
with the occasional rumble of a semi Most of the
time the memory stopped right there. Sometimes they keep going by,

(04:27):
trying to think about it that much, Especially that night,
as I waited for Mom for those long six hours,
I kind of knew when she would come back. One
of the guys from around the trailer park would start
up his truck early in the morning. He worked where
Mom did, but would start at a different time. And
so I was there looking at that dirty window with
the red light. Water trails from the last time it rained.

(04:50):
Still stuck against it, I thought of how Dad's number
was also on the counter, a large arrow on it
that said dial this part first. He lived in a
different area code. But all I knew at the time
was that calling him was more expensive, or that I'd
have to wait for him to call Big rig hawk

(05:10):
in the distance as I stared, and it snapped me
back into those old thoughts. Suddenly the fans sounded like rain,
and the red light from the window read Eddy's liquor.
Shadows passed in front of it, and all I could
do was raise my chin to see the heads of
those who walk by close to the truck. Now this
I share from vanishing memories. They were like birds I

(05:33):
catch with my bare hands and try not to kill
them as I squeeze for more details, just hard enough
to let me remember that I lived when I was
seven years old. And then I let go and wait
for the chance that another brave one arrives to take
a seed from the palm of my hand. I jumped
up when I saw the man's face against the glass

(05:54):
of my Dad's trunk. His face to this day was
the one with the most wrinkles I had ever seen
more than Dora's or the man in the wheelchair that
as for coins outside the laundromat. His smiles spread from
ear to ear and scattered yellow teeth not missing. There
were many of them, but apart from each other on

(06:15):
his black gums. You Henry skit, aren't you, he shouted,
hissing like a flat tire against the rain. I looked
at him with white eyes. I don't bite, he yelled
as he showed me his teeth, chuckling in a way
I had only heard an old music video, the one
where the masked figure laughs and fade into the next song.

(06:37):
I didn't say a word as I looked at him,
hoping that my dad would come out. Now. Maybe he
would tap that other man's shoulder and they would say
hi to each other, introducing me to him, make me
shake his hand. I could almost hear him cheering me
on to squeeze tighter. Then Dad never came, and then
I hoped for this man to look up at the

(06:57):
dark sky, cursed the ring, and run to with the
liquor store. But he was unbothered by it, even as
it dripped from the top to his bottom lip and
then down his chin. His black hair stuck to his
forehead and covered part of his left eye, but the
one that I could see was black, pitch black, and
I felt fear for the first time in my life.

(07:18):
There was always something to watch out for back then,
but strangers were a thing Mom always warned me about,
just as much as she did about looking both ways
before crossing the street. I looked away from his face
into the door lock knob that was sticking out an
inch away from the glass. It was way too late
for me to lock it. I didn't even know if
I could reach it. As he looked down at it

(07:40):
and then at me that smile. Open the door. Kid
open the door, he said, his deep voice blending a
little more now with the rain that's happened on the truck,
but it was panic. Then I gulped and crawled back
as I felt a cold leather seat against my legs
and back. He did was look at me, smiling, Open

(08:04):
the door. Kid open the door, he said, just a
little bit louder, his smile fading slowly from his face,
eyebrows dropping closer to his dark eyes. But the door
wasn't locked, and he could see it. He was going
to open it at any moment, and I had seen
this in a movie. He would reach out for you,
grab your legs, and then throw you on his shoulders

(08:25):
as you screamed, and then you'd be thrown into another
car and blindfolded. I'd heard through the other kids at
my school that they would rip out your heart and
sell it to rich people on the other side of town,
that they would put it in the chests of their
kids that were dying, and that you would be found
a week later thrown in a river without it. I

(08:46):
don't know why I didn't scream. Then I heard him
shouting to open the door. He knocked harder, his voice
boomed through the glass and rock the truck. I looked
at him as his mouth dropped down to his neck
and his tongue squirmed from side to He repeated it,
over and over, open it, kid open the door, Open
the door, Kid open it. Faster and faster he spoke.

(09:09):
His knocks turned into pounding on that glass so hard
that it was about to break. I thought about it then,
and it was thanks to those thoughts that I tried
to scream, and all that came out were short gasps.
I tried to look around him to see if anyone
else walked around the parking lot or was coming out
of the liquor store, but the rain and fog the
man had made with his breath made it impossible. I

(09:32):
put my hands over my ears and looked down, shutting
my eyes tight, only opening them to make sure I
was still inside that truck. I don't know how long
I was doing that for, but I couldn't, for the
life of me, look up toward him again. I remember
those dim red lights, the way they turned a little
bit brighter as I heard the pull of the door handle,

(09:55):
the slow creed. I was bringing my legs closer to me,
battling between holding my hands on my ears or using
them to hold my knees against my chest. Tears were
streaming down the sides of my face and down my nose.
Here I heard another voice say, that's when I felt
something against my leg, and I looked a hot pocket

(10:18):
right out of the microwave, half resting on my knee.
That shook it a little before I grabbed it. It
was still hot, still sealed. I stared at it as
the lights faded. When we got away from the street lights,
I thought of how Dad never asked me what happened,
never told me he had seen someone out there, and

(10:39):
I never brought it up. But I thought about it
all night as I let my hot pocket get cold
and eventually rot and the space between the bed and
the wall. I wasn't sharing my room with Mom back then,
and I was also marking the last time I would
ever share food with Tad. There was always a worried

(11:02):
look in Mom's eyes when she'd smiled to say that
she got a midnight shift. She knew that she would
have to bring me back home, take the chance to rest,
and then head back, leaving me by myself, though I
knew I was in there, though I would see her
peek through the window every once in a while. I
remember how though I woke us up early one morning
and Mom walked out to the front door, apologizing for

(11:25):
not flipping our door mat by the door. It was
a signal that Mom would leave for her to show
that she had gotten home safe that morning. I looked
through the door frame and saw Dora put her hand
on her chest, breathing deeply as a sign of relief. Honey,
I heard her say, whispering. Now, I thought it was
the mom stopped her. It's nothing, thank you, Dora. I'm

(11:47):
all right. But honey, did you hear about? Mom stopped
her again, that's far away from here. We're all right,
everything's good. How about you? What? I hesitated here and
Mom continued, how's Davy? It was her son that I'll
pause for a little bit, but it would be enough

(12:07):
to get her to change topics. She started saying how
he was doing okay with his new business, and then
complained about her daughter in law for a little bit.
That's when I stopped listening and dozed off again. Mom
needed more than hated that midnight shift. She would smile
when she got calls about it. An extra five dollars
and twenty cents an hour would cover enough back then,

(12:29):
but I could tell something bothered her about me being
alone at home. Most days when she would be out
of the regular shift, I would wait for her at
Douglass Donuts just across the street by the bus stop.
There was a couple that owned the shop, and they
would let me sit in one of the booths with
my homework and pencils. The only rule was that if
the place got too full and they needed a table,

(12:50):
that I could go into their office desk and sit there.
But it only happened one time, when a bunch of
police officers came. It had been the first time I
had seen a large group of people that knew each
other be so quiet in the same place, and I
remember thinking at that age that maybe police officers weren't
allowed to talk to each other in public. Gary and

(13:11):
Pam were their names, the owners of the doughnut shop.
Mom had known both of them from back when Dad
was still around, and they sided with Mom. I always
wondered where Dad got his morning coffee. After that, I
would only wait for Mom for a few hours after
school before she came to find me. I'd wait to
see her cross the street as the sun was setting,

(13:32):
except in the spring when it rained. It was then
when I tried to rely on that clock, and on
those dark days, the world ended across those foggy windows,
and the splashing on the dark streets could have been
a battle between sharks and crocodiles, for all I knew.
Don't open the door, don't turn on the stove, don't
answer the phone. My work numbers on the counter. I

(13:55):
was talking to myself now back in my room, as
I looked out toward the dirty window. I looked toward
the clock, but I couldn't remember when Mom had left
and when those six hours had started. Don't open the door,
don't turn on the stove, don't answer the phone. My
work numbers on the counter. I was whispering to myself,
just to hear something in the stillness of the night.

(14:17):
Don't open the door, don't turn on the stove, don't
answer the phone. My work numbers on the counter. Don't
open the door, kid. I jolted up from bed. The
fan was squeaking as it turned around the room, the
only thing that moved against that dark red light. My
heart was beginning to pound in my neck, and I
could feel it squeezing it. Open the door, kid, I

(14:40):
heard it in that same hits from long ago. I
heard the knocking on the door softened up and then vanish,
and I sat still, like waiting for Dad on Saturdays,
never quite ready. Suddenly the room became dark, a large
silhouette forming on the wall on the opposite side of
the window, and I just froze just an instant. Then

(15:02):
I turned my head toward the window, all in one jolt,
before I changed my mind. There was nothing nothing but
the red light with the tiny shadows circling around it,
the same way they had been all night the night
before that one, for as long as I could remember.
My back was against the wall now looking around the

(15:23):
room in all directions. The time said three forty two
a m. Now the two red dots blinking like the
eyes of a tilted head, and tried not to move
as a pounding continued around the thin walls of the
trailer until they were right behind me, striking deep into
my back and through my chest. I leaned forward and

(15:43):
tried to scream. I looked toward the window in the
direction of Lorah, but all that came out towards short
gasps of air. I crawled on the bed toward it,
toward that red light, and tried for that deep breath
to scream as loud as I could, and yet nothing again.
I reached for the floor with my hands first before

(16:03):
my socks hit the carpet, and I stood up. I
had made my mistake back then. I should have opened
the other door of the truck and ran, and I
should have kicked. I should have yelled, and had I
told someone, had I told Mom, maybe I wouldn't be
living with these nightmares. A year out of my life
back then was a long time. And so I stood there,

(16:25):
my face right up toward the window. I saw it him,
the man with the wrinkled face through the broken blinds
on the window, his teeth showing from ear to ear
as he smiled and whispered. Now opened the door, kid,
and I stood there, my eyes locked on his face,

(16:48):
stepping back with every short inhale that I took in,
I felt the edge of the bed and walked around it.
The clock now behind me would have to wait until
I could safely look at it, but I tried to scream.
I opened my mouth, and all that I could hear
was air. It was stinging as it escaped directly from
the back of my dry throat. I finally turned a

(17:09):
wait to over the couch in her living room, and
from that door frame I caught a glimpse of the time,
just three more minutes before Mom would be making her
way back home. I assumed I was never ready for
her either. There was always a weight a surprise whenever
she came, sometimes a little early or a little late.
There was another bus she could take if she missed

(17:31):
the first one. I couldn't see the man in the
window anymore, and the room was filled with glowing red
stripes like it usually did at night. Ah darn it.
I heard a whisper from the front door, the handle
jiggling open. It was Mom, followed by a deep sigh
she would usually do when she got home. Door handle

(17:52):
rattled and then stopped unnaturally. But I didn't wait. I
walked straight through the living room and grabbed the door handle,
twisted it loosely. It wasn't locked, and I don't know why.
In my young brain at the time, I thought about
how I knew that it wasn't Mom. At the door.
I waited my back against it as I heard the

(18:13):
taps on it. It didn't take long before they turned
into a violent pounding in a deep voice, yelling over
and over, open the door, Yard, open the door. I
leaned against a now locked door and cried again, hands
against my ears, waiting for that moment when the thing
would break through a window and grab me by the legs,

(18:34):
dragged me into a car to a place where they
would rip out my heart and give it to a
family on the other side of town. I don't know
how long I was there for, when I finally heard
the gentle footsteps of Mom walking up the soft boards
of the wooden steps, the ones that led to the
entrance of our home. I heard as she moved the
doormat to announce her arrival, before the door unlocked and

(18:56):
the latch clicked open. I moved out of the way when
she stepped in the door, hiding my tears along with
the darkness. What's wrong, baby, what are you doing here?
She said, kneeling down, her hand over both of my
hands around my head. Tell me what happened. I couldn't

(19:17):
say another word. That night, she took me into the
room and wrapped me up like a burrito on the
side of the bed. As she waited, she assumed it
had been a nightmare, that I had gotten scared while
she was gone, that everything was gonna be okay. She
said she would no longer take those midnight shifts. But
still I couldn't find a way to say what I

(19:39):
had seen out loud. It was a Sunday morning then,
and though to next door was getting ready for church,
she would always stop by to invite Mom, but Mom
would say that she would go to the service at four. Tired,
understandably from the night before. Sometimes you wouldn't go at all,

(19:59):
but this time Mom agreed and got us ready to
go with her. Almost the whole trailer park had gotten ready.
The church was full with people that even some were
standing against the back wall and listening through the speakers
outside in the garden. It was there where I heard
about what was happening around our town. Up until that point,

(20:20):
I had always taken a pen or whatever paper I
could find to doodle and draw while in church, But
this time I felt important. Mom was holding me under
her arm in that last row of the church, a
larger crowd behind us. We have witnessed, But we have
witnessed the priest started, and this community can happened to

(20:42):
any one. When evil lurish in the dark, we must
not open the door to the devil. We don't open
the door for deceit. We don't open the door for hate.
We don't open open the door. Don't turn on the stone,
don't answer the phone, work numbers on the counter. I

(21:03):
mounted to myself, don't open the door together, I heard
from somewhere under the pew. I looked around, confused, no
one else had heard it. I heard the voice laugh
and fade as I froze for the entire sermon. I
could feel Mom's eyes every few minutes, but all I
could do was look straight ahead the back of the

(21:24):
bench in front of us, the little books and flyers
on their holders, and hearing the blended voices made up
of whispers and echoes from the man in the distance.
The service took longer than it normally did. Maybe that's
just how it was in the mornings. But when it
was finally over, small groups gathered outside. We joined the

(21:45):
one with the owners of the coffee shop. They talked
about a man that was spotted by the fields by
the foothills, and then by the trailer park on Ethem
and Highway thirty. The devil, they whispered, it was here.
Others debated that it was impossible that it was some lunatic,
some freak who lived down in the forest that had

(22:05):
nothing better to do than to scare people. The police
had gotten involved, though, providing a service to bring people
home from the bus stops on Maine for those like
us who lived by the lots by the edge of town.
The mayor even said that they would add a temporary
stop until they sorted it out, but I don't remember it,
and always had to walk. It took a few months

(22:28):
for everything to die down. The church, even though we'd
go in the mornings, had less people. The man they
had seen roaming around the fields had been caught, and
I got a good look at him through a picture,
a black and white one from the newspaper. He was younger,
not from around here, not anyone I had seen before,
But even then I couldn't get rid of them. The

(22:51):
face in the paper was pale, smooth and small eyed.
There were no black gums, no white smile. Agreed that
it matched the description, and yet I knew that it
wasn't the same man, the same wrinkled man from the rain,
not the one that stood outside my window in front
of that red light, the one who pretended to be mom,

(23:13):
the one with a voice that haunted me when I
try to go to sleep, and the nightmares all the
same would start in the room, a familiar voice at
the door, it's me, baby, Mama loves you, and would
suddenly turn into a hiss. Open the door, kid. I
never screamed. I tried to never even wake up my mom.

(23:37):
And one morning, a trash day, the asphalt still shining
from the rain. As I finished zipping up my jacket
to walk outside, I opened the door and I saw
right in front of me a sealed hot pocket on
the doormat. I bent down and felt that it was
still warm. The mom never bought them, and Dad hadn't called.

(23:59):
And I knew that even if the town caught the
man that was roaming in the fields, even if the
town forgot that wrinkled man hadn't gone anywhere, that thing
outside the door would keep waiting patiently for me. And
so it has been. I think of Dad sometimes we

(24:20):
open the door without even knowing it. Every time he
stepped into Eddie's liquor, he would let something follow him
out to the truck, to the house. To me, it
was probably the first one to smile at that thing
through those red lights, welcoming him. But me, I never
opened it. And yet I've carried him in dreams, in silence,

(24:43):
the ways I wait for morning. But the door, no
matter how long he stood there, not through the lure
of my mom's voice, the snacks that bought through the
rain through the glass, It waits in wrinkles and whispers patiently.
But I as I shake in its shadow or in

(25:05):
the light that shines and stripes from under, it will
not open. The latch will stay with all the strength
that can manage closed. I knet. It still waits, that
waits for a mistake, just like me, the day when
I forget myself, the day when I smile at a stranger,

(25:26):
and in that moment it will enter. There was a

(25:46):
lot to unpack on this story, but the connections to
what inspired this episode are pretty eerie, and I know
that sometimes we have questions about these specific stories, and
I want to open this up for everyone so we
can join a discussion or even ask me questions directly
about what this was all about. Now link to everything
in the description of this episode. Scary Story Podcast is

(26:08):
written and produced by me Edwin Kolarubes and a huge
shout out to the Scary Plus members. Thank you so
much for supporting the shows and everything we do here
at Scary FM, and as always you have questions comments,
you can find me on Instagram, TikTok and Facebook as
Edwin Cove. That's E d W I n c O V.
And that's all. Thank you very much for listening, but

(26:28):
Scary everyone, see you soon.