Believe it or not? The first thing my manager taught me on my first day in this business, I took as a joke for three years.
He said: "When showing a house to a client, if there's a bedroom door closed, don't push it open on your own. If the client wants to open it, let them do it. But you—don't be the first one to enter."
I thought at the time: what kind of silly rule is this? Afraid there's a corpse hiding inside? Later I learned—it's worse than a corpse.
I've been a broker for three years, never encountered that closed door. Until last week.
That apartment was in an old Fengtai residential community, a 1990s prefab building, six floors with no elevator, three bedrooms and two bathrooms, listed at 200,000 yuan less than comparable units.
When my manager dumped this deal on me, his exact words were: "Chen Mo, we're short just one deal this month. Don't be picky."
I really needed that deal. Three years in, my performance was mediocre—if I kept going like this, I'd either change careers or get fired.
The client was a middle-aged man, surnamed Zhou. On the day we arranged to see the apartment, he wore a gray jacket, holding a set of keys, looking like he'd just come from work.
"Brother Zhou, this place really offers great value," I said while unlocking the door. "Though it's an old community, it's south-north ventilated with good lighting. The previous owner just moved out, the place is clean."
Zhou Ligang didn't say much, just "mm-hmm" once. He walked very lightly—no panting even after climbing six floors.
The door opened. Camphor smell in the entryway. Light laminate floors, square living room, sunlight streaming through the south window, dust slowly floating in the light beam.
I stepped aside to let him enter first. He crossed the threshold, his gaze didn't land on the living room balcony, didn't scan the master bedroom doorway—it went straight and steady to that closed white wooden door at the end of the corridor.
Just one glance, then he looked away, like he hadn't seen anything.
I followed the routine: showed him the master bedroom with a balcony, south-facing, plenty of sun. The second bedroom faced north, slightly smaller but tidy, wardrobe left behind by the landlord.
"Both the viewable rooms are seen," I said. "There's also a study, not very large..."
Pointed to the end of the corridor. That was the last room, door closed.
White wooden door, painted white, identical to the other two. A layer of dust on the handle, like no one had touched it in a long time. Just as I was about to push it open, the manager's words suddenly popped into my head. My hand stopped mid-air.
"Brother Zhou, that room is a study, about eight square meters, faces east, gets some morning light..."
"Let's see this one," Zhou Ligang said.
His voice was calm, eyes fixed on that door again. I hesitated: "Okay, I'll open it."
Hand on the doorknob—ice cold. Twisted once, didn't move. Added more force, still didn't budge.
"Locked?" Zhou Ligang asked.
"Shouldn't be," I looked down at the handle. "Landlord said all keys are universal. Maybe the door frame's swollen..."
Before I finished, there was a "click" sound from the door gap.
The door opened by itself.
A crack, just wide enough for a finger. Inside was pitch black. Light from the corridor seeped in, cutting a diamond shape on the floor.
Air seeped out from the crack, cool, with an indescribable smell—not fishy or stinky, like cardboard left in a basement for a long time.
Zhou Ligang stepped forward and pushed the door open.
It was indeed a study. Empty. No bookshelf, no desk, not even curtains.
Window glass covered with old newspaper, dim yellow light seeping in. Floor was spotlessly clean, not a speck of dust—a stark contrast to the thin layer of dust in the corridor.
"This room's not bad," Zhou Ligang walked in, stood in the center of the room for a moment, turned to look at me. "Decent lighting, faces east, bright in the morning."
I stood in the doorway, feet glued to the ground. The room was indeed empty, but something felt off. The air was colder than the corridor, unnaturally so.
Beijing's heating had stopped at the end of March, that cold seeping into my bones.
"Not coming in to look?" he asked me.
Took a deep breath and stepped in one step. Floor was solid underfoot, no hollow sound. Sunlight through the newspaper projected blurry shadows on the wall.
Glanced down—no footprints on the floor. Zhou Ligang had clearly walked in first, but where he'd stood was spotless, not a single trace.
Must have misseen, I thought. The light was dim.
"This would work well as a study," Zhou Ligang looked around again. "Right, let's go out."
He walked out still very lightly. I followed, gently closing the door behind me. When it shut, there was another "click," like something had latched inside.
Going downstairs, Zhou Ligang talked more, asking about property fees, heating, parking. I answered absent-mindedly, my mind stuck on that empty room. At the second-floor landing, he suddenly stopped.
"That room," he said, "did someone live here before?"
"Landlord said it's always been a storage room," I flipped through my phone. "No one's lived in it."
He nodded, didn't ask again.
The contract signing was on Friday at the branch office. Zhou Ligang brought the deposit and ID, I had the contract ready in advance.
He read it thoroughly, asked about property rights, mortgages, household registration transfer, all finished, picked up the pen to sign.
"Oh right," he suddenly said, "I only want two bedrooms."
Froze: "Brother Zhou, this is a three-bedroom apartment..."
"I know." He flipped to the floor plan page, drew a circle around two bedrooms with his pen. "These two, I'll buy. That one I don't want."
He pointed to the one at the end of the corridor.
"That's included in the total area," I said. "Three bedrooms, two bathrooms—if you only want two, the property rights can't be split..."
"Can be split," he interrupted. "I asked. The deed can be issued as two separate ones. You help me separate that one."
"Separate it? That room's not big either, you could keep it as a study or storage..."
"I don't need it." He put down the pen and looked at me, eyes calm. "That room isn't bought by me. There's already 'someone' inside.
Separating them temporarily is just giving each other a little time. When the time comes, they'll eventually be together again."
He said this so calmly, like talking about today's weather. My back went "whoosh" cold.
"Wh-what person?"
Zhou Ligang didn't answer directly. He capped the pen, pushed the contract forward: "Think it over and let me know. Price stays the same, two bedrooms discounted proportionally, I can add more. You help me get the formalities done properly."
Stood up, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "That room," looked back from the door and said, "I went in before I knew something was wrong."
Door closed. The shop was empty again. AC humming, landline occasionally lighting up then going dark. Stared at the two circles he'd drawn on the floor plan, the third bedroom clean and empty, like a puzzle piece that had been dug out.
Slept badly that night.
Scrolled through Moments for a long time, remembered my college classmate Zhao Yu was in this business too, selling luxury properties in Chaoyang.
Sent him a WeChat: "Lao Zhao, asking you something. A client came to see a house, there was a bedroom door that opened by itself. Went into an empty room. The client said there's someone inside. What does this mean?"
Zhao Yu replied instantly: "Opened by itself? You pushed it?"
"It was locked, I twisted it and it wouldn't move, it opened a crack by itself."
He replied after a dozen seconds: "Did you close that room in the end?"
"Closed it."
"Closed it?"
"Closed it, I even gave it a little pull to make sure."
Zhao Yu didn't reply again. I followed up twice, he only said "tomorrow, let's talk, sleeping." But I saw his WeChat status changed to "typing..." several times, each time lasting a long while before disappearing.
Took half a day off the next day, went to that community myself. Fear aside, if I didn't figure out what was hiding in there, every time I showed a house in the future, I'd think of that door.
Sun was good at ten AM. The sound-activated light at the unit entrance was broken, walls had small ads for drain cleaning. Stood downstairs for a while, met an old man drying quilts.
Bags of cement piled at the corridor entrance, rusty heating pipes climbed up the outer wall, paint peeling off in chunks.
Walked over and handed him a cigarette: "Old man, asking you something. That sixth-floor three-bedroom, you know it well?"
He took the cigarette and glanced at me: "You're a broker, right?"
"Yes, a client's interested, want to ask about the situation."
He took a puff, said after a while: "That place has been empty for two years. Previously rented to a family, they moved out after less than half a year."
"Why?"
"The kid kept crying," he tapped the ash. "Said someone was knocking on the door at night. Later the wife said, that room at the end of the corridor, door closed, but they could always hear noises inside at night."
"What kind of noise?"
"Can't say, like someone crawling on the ground." His voice lowered. "After they moved out, the landlord came to check several times, said the lock on that room changed by itself."
"Changed lock?"
"Yes, the landlord's key wouldn't work anymore. Later found a locksmith to pry it open—something had been stuffed into the lock cylinder from the opposite direction."
Stood downstairs, sun hot on the back of my neck, but my spine kept getting cold chills.
"Did someone live in that room before?"
"No one before that family," the old man thought. "Don't know further. This building was built in the 90s, changed hands several times."
Thanked him, went upstairs to look again. The sound-activated light flickered on and off. When I stepped on the third-floor landing, the light went out. I stomped my foot, it came back on—dim yellow, illuminating the dust on the handrail.
Opened the door with the spare key. The inside was the same as when I left last time, my footprints still on the living room floor. That door at the end of the corridor—closed.
Walked over, stood in front of it.
White painted surface, dust on the handle. Reached out, fingertips touched the handle—ice cold. Twisted once, didn't move. Twisted again, still didn't move.
A "thud" from inside the lock cylinder—deep, heavy, like something had bumped the door from inside. Completely different from that light "click" the other day.
Put my ear to the door. Nothing inside. Too quiet, like the back of the door was a solid wall.
Just as I was about to twist again, my phone rang. Zhou Ligang.
"Chen Mo, thought about the contract?" His voice was still calm.
"Brother Zhou, that room..."
"Don't worry about what's inside," he interrupted. "Just handle the formalities for me. The money won't be short."
"I just want to ask one thing," I took a deep breath. "When you went in that day, what exactly did you see?"
The line was quiet for a few seconds. I thought he'd hung up, then he said: "I didn't see anything."
"Then you said inside there..."
"I felt it."
"What did you feel?"
Zhou Ligang didn't answer. He said: "Chen Mo, do you know why that door opened by itself?"
Said I didn't know.
"Because it knew someone was going to come in," he said. "It was waiting for you to open it. But you didn't open it that day. You twisted it and couldn't budge it, right?"
"Right..."
"That's right. Because you didn't open it, that's why it opened itself. If you'd twisted it open, the one who went in wouldn't have been me."
Call ended.
Stood in the corridor staring at that door, hand still on the handle. The door was ice cold, that cold crawling up my arm through my palm. Snapped my hand away and stepped back two paces.
Door still closed. But I always felt like there was a shadow moving under the door crack.
Legs were wobbly running downstairs. Almost fell at the first-floor entrance, leaned against the wall and panted for a long time. Sun was bright, roses blooming in the flower bed, someone walking a dog in the community—everything was too normal.
But my mind was full of Zhou Ligang's words.
"If you'd twisted it open, the one who went in wouldn't have been me."
That day in the study, I clearly went in. I stepped one step, stood on that room's floor. So now...
Looked down at my feet. Leather shoe soles were spotless—clearly I'd stepped on dust when going out.
Squatted down to check the soles—the dust patterns on the laminate floor were still there, but my soles had zero dust. Like I'd never stepped on it at all. Like that room's floor never left footprints.
Took a taxi back to the branch. Manager saw my pale face and asked what was wrong. Said it was nothing, just a cold.
Zhou Ligang came again in the afternoon, brought a supplementary agreement he'd drafted himself, terms clear like he was a professional.
Read it twice, no issues—just that bedroom was to be separated out, property rights split, purchased at a discount.
"Brother Zhou," I couldn't help but ask. "After that room is separated, what do you plan to do with it?"
"Not doing anything," he handed me the pen. "Just let it stay empty. Door closed, no one goes in, it'll be fine."
"But that apartment will still have a bedroom you won't live in..."
"I don't live there," he smiled, very faint. "I'm watching it for someone else."
My heart "clunked."
"Who?"
He didn't say. Signed the document, took a copy and left. Stopped at the door again: "Chen Mo, next time you show a house to a client, remember one thing."
"What?"
"Closed doors—don't touch them proactively. If the client wants to touch it, let them. But you—never be the first to go in."
Door closed. The shop was empty again.
Sat at my desk, computer screen dark, reflecting my own face. That door image kept flashing in front of my eyes—white, quiet, thin layer of dust on the handle.
Opened the computer and searched for information about that community. Old community, built in 1994, originally unit housing, later privatized, changed landlords several times.
That sixth-floor three-bedroom was first registered to someone surnamed Liu, bought in 1998, lived there for about ten years, sold in 2008.
Couldn't find the second landlord's surname, but one record sent chills down my back again.
In 2013, there was an unnatural death in that apartment.
The report was very brief, old news, only mentioned: "A resident on the sixth floor was found dead indoors, cause was sudden myocardial infarction, living alone, discovered days after death."
Place of death— that bedroom at the end of the corridor.
When the deceased was found, that bedroom door was closed.
Stared at the screen, fingers cold. Living alone, myocardial infarction, door closed, days before discovery. That person died in that room, no one knew for days because the door was always closed.
That door had locked him inside, and locked something else inside too.
Closed the computer, stood up and walked around. Other colleagues were out, just me alone.
Sky darkened outside, streetlights came on, someone walking a dog, someone carrying vegetables home—an ordinary Beijing evening.
But standing in the empty branch, I always felt like there was a door at the end of the corridor behind me, silently opening a crack.
Dreamt about it that night.
In the dream, I stood in front of that bedroom door again. White wooden door, dust on the handle. This time I didn't touch it.
The door opened by itself, little by little, slowly sliding backward. Light squeezed in from the crack, illuminating a patch of floor.
Nothing on the floor. Clean, no dust.
But looked down at my own feet—standing on the floor, shoes clean, not a single footprint left.
Heard a sound inside. Very faint, like nails scraping the wooden floor, one stroke at a time.
Woke from the dream drenched in sweat. Cold chills ran down my spine, fingertips tingling, eardrums buzzing.
Checked my phone—3:27 AM. A crack in the bedroom window, wind blowing the curtain up. Stared at the curtain for a while, always felt like someone was standing behind it.
Took a day off the next day. Didn't go to the branch, didn't go to that community, didn't answer Zhou Ligang's calls.
Lay at home all day, scrolled short videos, ordered delivery, pretended nothing had happened. Zhao Yu sent a WeChat in the evening.
"Chen Mo, what you asked me yesterday, thought about it and decided to tell you."
"Say."
Phone screen light on my face. Sat up, leaned back against the headboard.
"That door you encountered, I've heard of similar ones. My former master who taught me said old houses are prone to this kind of thing.
Some rooms, if someone lived there, if someone died there—once the door closes, it becomes its own realm. Door closed, what's inside can't get out."
Stared at the screen, fingertips hovering above the input box: "What kind of realm?"
"Can't say exactly. It's not the living world, not the dead world. Somewhere in between. If that realm goes for a long time without someone stepping in, the existence inside will look for a new person to replace.
The first person to enter becomes a candidate. If a living person goes in, they become a new visitor in that realm. If no one goes in for a long time to rotate, it will lure someone outside to step in."
Wind outside banged something on the security window net. Glanced up, the curtain didn't move.
He continued: "But if someone twists that door from outside, that's knocking."
"What happens if you knock?"
"It responds."
"Responds with what?"
Zhao Yu didn't reply for a long time: "That room's door, if it opens by itself, means it wants you to go in. But you can't be first. Someone else has to go in first."
"Let the client go in first?"
"Right. You never be the first to enter, because you don't know what's inside..."
He didn't finish typing. After a dozen seconds, withdrew the last line, sent a new one:
"You didn't go in first that day, right?"
Said: "No. The client went in first, I followed behind."
"Good. Don't go to that apartment anymore. If the formalities can be transferred to someone else, transfer them. If not, let the client find someone else to handle it."
"Why?"
"Because that door opened once, it knows you stood at the entrance. If you go back again, next time it opens, it might..."
He didn't finish. I stared at that "might," waited for a long time, he didn't send anymore.
Put down the phone, remembered Zhou Ligang standing in the center of that room, turning to say "not bad" to me. What was his expression at the time? Too calm, unnaturally so for someone who just walked into an empty room.
Later he said he "felt" it. Felt what? Felt the "person" already in that room?
Suddenly realized a question.
Zhou Ligang walked in that day, stood inside, came out and said he didn't want that room. Said it wasn't bought by him, there was already a "person" inside.
So during the moment he went in, what did that "person" do to him? Or what did that "person" say to him?
Cold sweat started breaking out again. Fingertips tingling.
Phone vibrated again. Zhou Ligang.
"Chen Mo, what stage are the formalities at?"
Typed and deleted, deleted and typed again, finally replied: "Brother Zhou, about separating that room, I need to check with the property rights side, might take a few days."
"Not urgent," he replied. "As long as the door stays closed."
Stared at these four words, the more I thought the more wrong it felt. He said "as long as the door stays closed"—was he reminding me of something? Or did he know I'd already been there again?
Suddenly remembered something.
That second time I went upstairs, stood in front of that door and twisted the handle. Twisted twice and couldn't open it, but the lock cylinder made a sound.
A "thud."
Completely different from that light "click" the first time. At the time I thought it was just the lock. But if what Zhao Yu said is true—twisting the handle is "knocking"?
Those two sounds—the first "click" was it opening to let me in, the second "thud" was it responding to my knock after I twisted it.
Sat up "whoosh," heart pounding. Bedroom curtain still fluttering, wind blowing tree shadows outside into scattered light on the floor.
Stared at the door for a long time, confirmed no white wooden door had appeared incongruously in my apartment corridor, then slowly exhaled.
But dreamed again that night.
This time it wasn't that bedroom. It was my own living room, sofa, TV, coffee table all in place. But there was an extra door at the end of the corridor. White paint, dust on the handle.
Stood in the living room looking at that door.
It was moving. Pushing outward little by little. The crack widened, light poured out from inside—black light, swallowing all the brightness in the room.
Tried to run, legs wouldn't move. Door half open, nothing visible inside, but something was crawling out through the crack.
Nails scraping the floor. One stroke. One stroke. Getting closer.
Tried desperately to wake up but couldn't. Glanced down at my own feet, bare feet on my living room floor, spotless, no footprints. Not a single trace.
Like I wasn't there at all, or I'd already merged with that floor.
That thing crawled to the coffee table and stopped. It was looking at me. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was looking.
Then heard a sound. Muffled, like coming from very far away, or like it was right next to my ear.
"You twisted it."
It was Zhou Ligang's voice.
"You twisted twice. It remembers you now."
Screamed awake from the dream. Soaked with sweat, like fished out of water. Sky was already bright outside, birds chirping, sanitation workers sweeping downstairs.
Sat up and panted for a long time before breaking free from that suffocating feeling.
New message on my phone. From Zhou Ligang, sent at four AM.
"The contract is not urgent now. Don't come to the branch recently, and don't go to that apartment. Wait for my message."
Replied "okay," hands still shaking.
After sending that message, Zhou Ligang never contacted me again. I didn't dare go to the branch either, asked the manager for a week's leave saying something at home. Manager scolded a bit but approved.
On the fifth day, Zhao Yu sent another WeChat.
"Chen Mo, my master told me something later."
"What?"
"That kind of door, if someone twisted it from outside, it remembers that person's aura. Next time it opens, it won't be waiting for someone to go in anymore."
"Then what?"
"It'll come out looking for you."
Stared at the screen, phone nearly dropped.
"What do I do?"
"Don't stay at home," Zhao Yu replied quickly. "Go to places with lots of people. Don't be alone during the day. Also—never touch any closed door again. Any door."
Put down the phone, stood in the living room, looked around. Three rooms, two bedroom doors open, one bathroom door half ajar.
Walked over and pulled the bathroom door open fully, then pushed both bedroom doors open too. All doors wide open, bright and clear.
But I knew this was temporary. At night they'd have to close.
That night I slept with all doors in the house open, living room light on, bright all night. No dreams, but slept very lightly—any sound could startle me awake.
Around two AM, wind blew outside, making the balcony door shake.
Sat bolt upright, heart rate 120.
The balcony door wasn't closed tightly, wind pushed it open a crack. Stared at that crack for a long time, confirmed nothing white was crawling in from outside, then got out of bed to close it. Hands shaking when I closed it.
Couldn't take it anymore the next day, moved in with a colleague. He lives on the first floor, few rooms, few doors.
Slept on the living room sofa, every night opened the entrance door, bedroom door, kitchen door, bathroom door, all open, slept with the lights on.
Colleague asked what was wrong, said there's formaldehyde in my place, out for a few days.
Lived like this for half a month.
Zhou Ligang never contacted me again. I didn't dare ask about the formalities. I don't know what happened to that apartment later, didn't want to ask. But one day saw the status of that apartment became "contracted" in the company system.
The handler wasn't me, it was another colleague.
Sent him a WeChat: "That Fengtai apartment, signed?"
"Signed, last week."
"Client's name?"
"Zhou, Zhou Ligang. Why, didn't you transfer this deal to me?"
Stared at the screen, typed and deleted, deleted and typed again, finally only replied: "Nothing, just asking. That separated study room..."
"What separation? Client bought the whole thing with full payment, all three bedrooms and two bathrooms."
Hand shook.
"He said he didn't want that study room?"
"Wanted it, why not? Showed all three bedrooms, when signing the contract I took him for a second look, that study room door was closed, he pushed it open himself and walked around, came out said it's fine, bought it all together."
Put down the phone, sat motionless at my desk.
Zhou Ligang said that room wasn't bought by him, there was already a "person" inside. But now he bought it all.
So he's not afraid anymore?
Or rather—he's not unafraid anymore. He's accepted that "person."
Stared at the information on that apartment on the computer screen. All three bedrooms marked "for sale" in the floor plan, now should all be "sold." That room at the end of the corridor, just like the other two, no special markings.
But I know that door is definitely closed again now.
Who lives inside, or what lives inside—only Zhou Ligang knows.
A few days later, went to another area to show a house. Sixth floor, old community, three bedrooms and one bathroom, not bad. Client was a young couple, woman walking in front, man following behind.
The layout was similar to Zhou Ligang's. There was also a bedroom at the end of the corridor. Door open, inside had an old desk, stacked with odds and ends.
The couple went in to look, I stood at the door without moving.
"This one has decent lighting," the woman came out and said. "Just faces north, a bit cold in winter."
"Nothing," the man said. "Just install a radiator."
They were discussing renovation, I stood in the corridor, sunlight streaming through the living room window, warm. Everything was normal.
But my eyes unconsciously glanced at that door at the end of the corridor. Door open, desk, clutter, dust—clear as day.
Then heard a sound behind me.
Very faint, a "click."
Spin around.
At the end of the corridor, that open door had closed halfway without my noticing. The other half was still open, but the crack inside was pitch black, like something was retracting.
The couple were still discussing in the living room, no one noticed.
Stared at that half-open door, heart starting to race. Eardrums buzzing, but couldn't hear anything clearly.
It's not that apartment. It's not Zhou Ligang's. But it's also a door. Closed, or half-closed, or moving by itself.
Stepped back one step, then another.
Phone rang, it was Zhao Yu.
"Chen Mo, where are you now?"
"Showing... a house."
"Stop. Get out now."
"Why?"
Zhao Yu's voice was very low, like he's hiding from something: "My master called me today. He said that kind of door—doesn't only appear when you encounter it. Once you know about it, it will come find you."
"What do you mean?"
"Meaning," he paused, "you know now. They know you know. From now on, every house you show, you'll encounter closed doors."
Stood in the corridor, phone pressed to my ear. The couple was still discussing which room would be the nursery.
At the end of the corridor, that half-open door closed completely.
A "click."
Lighter than before, calm, like something had deliberately opened a path. Exactly the same as the first time I heard it at Fengtai's study room.
Didn't look back, started running toward the entrance. The client called behind: "Chen Mo? Chen Mo where are you going?"
Didn't stop, ran downstairs, sun on my face, warm. Stood by the community flower bed and panted for a long time, looked up at that sixth-floor window.
A figure flashed behind the curtain and disappeared.
Never showed that apartment again. The client found another broker. Heard they didn't buy in the end, because the woman had nightmares, dreaming someone was knocking on the door of that room at the end of the corridor.
Still working as a broker. But now I've developed a habit when showing houses.
Every time I enter a new house, I count the bedroom doors first.
If one is missing, if there's one that's closed
I say, this one's not suitable, let's change.
When clients ask why, I just smile: "Nothing, that room's locked, can't be opened."
Actually I want to say
Don't open. Never open.
Because inside it, there might already be a "person" living there.
And that person, could be me, or could be you.
Because a closed door isn't meant to be opened.
It's meant to keep something inside.
You believe it?
I believe it.