A/N: If you have read this fic and have gotten notified again, then there isn't actually anything new here.

There were initially just two chapters and I decided that to make this one shot it would be better if I removed one of them and so I did that and I don't know how it ended up in the first page of the Spider-Man Comics section. I literally have no idea how because I just deleted one of two chapters to make this story a whole.

And so I found myself writing this intro/author's note that you are now reading.

It was just that this fic was there in my profile, and I haven't written for this one for a while. In fact this story was in the name "And This Is Number Eight" but then I decided that since this is a horror story (I tried to make it horrifying but no surprise if it didn't turn out to be so) I should change the name to "That Door". I figured it's better as a one-shot. So if you have read it before, by any chance, there's nothing actually new here. But if you haven't read it before, well, you are welcome to try it.

This was also my very first story on fanfic and I somewhat have a kind of soft spot for it which eventually stopped me from removing it. So do be considerate if you find that some dialogues here feel a little childish.

So I would like to thank everyone who were kind enough to add this story to their favorites and story alert list, and also those who left their reviews after reading it when it was first posted much before today. Thank you.

Also I have another fic named "The Spider-Verse" and I plan to complete it. So if you are interested and have watched the film "Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse", you can trust me that I'll stick with that story till I complete it.

On the table beside the bed that had once been his stood a picture of him with his aunt and his uncle. On the empty desk at the adjoining wall, there was a long forgotten crate full of all kinds of childhood rubbish that he had once treasured. He went over to it, and bent down to remove the lid. There were a few old comic books. Some broken action figures. A pair of kid's binoculars.

He started digging through the mess, and came up with a diary he remembered being gifted on his ninth birthday. He sat down on the bed and flipped through the yellowed pages.

The last entry caught his eyes. There was no date written. Just two lines:

"Eddie and his parents disappeared two months ago. His old house has been torn to rubles."

-o0o-

The low red afternoon sun hid between the leaves of the trees canopying the huge garden of the big old abandoned house that stood menacingly casting its shadows of dread and gloom over us. Every second I stood there, I had an urge to turn and dash away. The place was cold and something just didn't feel right. Maybe it was my instinct. Maybe it was fear. There was another reason taunting me at the back of my mind. We were not even allowed on this street, leave alone coming to this far to its very end. My friend Eddie Brock, the only one standing beside me, had even this stranger idea of entering the house because the door lock seemed to be missing. He told me that this had been his house before his family moved to my neighborhood, where he happened to live just two blocks away from my home. I knew that his old house was around here somewhere, but I had had no idea that it was this very one. But surely it wasn't his anymore, and if my aunt somehow found out that I was trespassing over others' property, she would ground me for a lifetime. So I refused to go in. But he dragged me onto the porch anyway.

"Come on, Peter!" Eddie said, his eyes twinkling dangerously with thrill, his flaxen hair drenched in sweat, glimmering red under the warm, red sky, "Are you afraid of ghosts?"

His question caught me off guard. How had ghosts come into this? "There are no such things as ghosts," I told him matter-of-factly, and I completely believed in my words.

He smirked. "Then why do you think we had to leave, eh?" I didn't answer. Just stared at his animated eyes. "It's because this house was haunted," he said, "Is haunted. Dad told me if we hadn't moved, the ghost would haunt us our entire life."

"Not possible," I said, although an icy chill ran down my back, and I already felt somebody tickling my shoulders from behind. "There are no such things as ghosts. He just said that to terrify you."

But he completely ignored me, lost in his own mysterious world. He was fiddling with the switch of the doorbell. "Our one looked different." He pressed the switch.

Within a second there was a loud chime from inside the house. "Sound's different too."

"And if there are ghosts," I said, ignoring him, "Aren't you afraid of them?"

"I wonder who changed the bell."

"Eddie?"

"Huh?"

"Aren't you afraid of ghosts?"

"A little, yes, but not a lot." He pushed open the door to the house. As he did, a tiny bell rang overhead and we looked up. "That's new too." And after a moment, "Come on in, Pete!"

Ignoring my aunt's life-long lessons and warnings about going into restricted areas, I followed him inside because of my own curiosity, completely unaware of what was there.

We were greeted by a cold air and the sound of a ticking clock somewhere in the living room. Apart from the faint light streaming in through the ventilators, it was dark. Dark draperies were drawn over the long, French windows. The living room was huge. The floor was marbled, and covered with dirt and dust. The air was thick, but not too much. Considering the fact that this house had been empty for the past three years, the air was not so stale. Strange, abstract paintings hung on the walls of the room. Apart from the paintings, there were long inch-deep marks on the walls and the floor, something like those left behind by large, deadly claws. At the far end of the room, a long wooden staircase led up to further darkness.

Eddie took to the stairs and I reluctantly followed. Slowly, my hesitation to venture further edged its way back to me. I kept quiet though. Just a little more, I assured myself.

"You didn't completely vacate the house," I whispered, a little afraid of my own voice, "There's a working clock, curtains and the paintings. Why leave those behind?"

"Daddy said that we could not take everything with us. We had to leave a few things."

The journey to the first floor wasn't a very pleasant one. The staircase creaked. The deadly silence of the house, its cold atmosphere, accompanied by the ticking of a clock and a creaking staircase which screamed every time we placed our foot wasn't a very assuring experience. Although I wasn't a believer in "ghosts", I was beginning to creep out. I always dreaded the darkness.

At the first floor, I followed Eddie to a corridor to the right of the stairway.

"This was my room," Eddie said, as we stood before a door with finely crafted intricate designs. He twisted the doorknob and gently pushed open the door. A bell sounded overhead.

"Eddie, why do you have a bell at each and every door?"

"We never had any before! I don't know who tied these silly things everywhere." He tried the lights, but to no avail. The power supply had been cut off. He tried each and every switch one after the other, when suddenly the shrieks of a loud bell filled the room once again. Eddie tried the switch again, and then the bell sounded once more.

Just then, we heard a muffled scream from somewhere inside the house. It bounced off the walls. It wasn't human. Not at all.

"What's that?" I gasped, my heart thumping.

"Let's go and find out," Eddie said, and I stopped him.

"No, Eddie, no. I am not staying here another minute."

He looked disappointed. "Basement's still left," he said and rushed downstairs.

"Eddie! I am not going," I said stubbornly. I was amazed at his guts. "Not into the basement. We were warned not even to be in this neighbourhood. This is getting too much. I am going out."

"Then just wait in the living room. I'll be there in a minute," said Eddie and rushed into the darkness which swallowed him within moments. Soon I heard more chimes inside the house. Eddie.

I don't know what made me look around. Here again, the walls were full of strange paintings and posters. The corridor leading to the rooms was carpeted. Feeling a little foolish, I crept to the stairs. That's when I heard the sounds. Sounds of bells ringing and of inhuman screams and shrieks. And I looked up.

Sometimes when you are afraid, small things like even a bell or a chandelier can drain the life out of you. That's what it did to me.

The ceiling of the entire house was bells. Bells hung like chandeliers. Maybe because I found it strange. Maybe because this house was abandoned. But I was cold in the spine in the already chilling, lifeless air.

I kept standing at the corridor, my eyes shut tight. I didn't want to be left alone in this eerie, large house, nor did I want to explore the basement. I knew I shouldn't believe in ghosts but I was having mixed thoughts about it now.

One minute passed. Two minutes passed. Three minutes passed. Four. Five. It felt like eternity before I heard the screams.

A familiar voice screamed. "Eddie?" I called out, my voice hardly audible. "Eddie?" This time a little louder.

An ear-piercing scream answered my calls, and reverberated across the room. Totally inhuman. Then, a whisper. Like someone calling me. Calling for help. I could say from the tone.

But the voice wasn't speaking.

It was crying. Or screaming softly. Either.

"Peter!" It was such a relief to hear him. "Open the door. It's jammed!"

"Which door?" I called out, my voice trembling.

"Near the stairs. Please. Hurry."

I forced my legs to move back into the darkness. "I'm at the base of the stairs, Ed."

"Then turn to your left."

"Okay."

"And Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurry."

I stretched out my hand and tried to grab what might feel like a door. I grabbed air.

"Where?" I called, half whispering, and found it. I twisted the door knob and pushed. It didn't open. I pushed again with all my strength, but all in vain.

"Are you sure this is the right door?" I asked.

"Yes! Try again!"

"I'm trying!"

I twisted the knob again and didn't even push, but it had opened itself. There was a loud gong from inside the basement.

Eddie sprang out.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

We hurried out into the living room. My legs worked faster than I had commanded them to.

"Ouch! Hey!" Eddie said from behind.

"What happened?" I turned to look at him.

"Something just hit me in the back."

"Turn around!"

Eddie obeyed.

There was nothing.

"Nothing," I said, "Let's go."

I pulled opened the front door and dashed out, like the way I had wanted to. Only after a few paces did I realize that Eddie wasn't next to me. I turned around. He was still rooted to the porch, his back turned to me. He was staring at the door.

"Why aren't you coming?" I called out to him.

Eddie shook his head and took off towards me.

"I thought I saw something," he said, "Something big."

"Like what?"

"Like a human."

"There was no one there in the house."

"Then why wasn't the door locked or chained? And who had locked me in the basement, if not you?"

"No. I didn't lock you in there."

"I know. It was a ghost. And it was there."

"Eddie? What did you see?"

"Let's go home Peter, before somebody reports us missing."

"It's my birthday tomorrow," I said to Eddie two weeks later.

"Yeah, I'll get Pizza tomorrow."

"No. There'll be a cake. A huge birthday cake with my name written on it," I said. "But pizza won't be bad either!"

"How old are you turning tomorrow?"

"Nine,"

"Heh!"

"What?"

"I already turned nine two months ago. I've never celebrated my birthdays. But we go out. Have lunch or dinner somewhere. And I get a lot of gifts!"

"But why don't you celebrate?"

"I don't know. Once my mother really wanted to. That was last year. And then I overheard my father telling her that our house isn't a good place for so many people."

"But you live here now! Last year you were here in Forest Street!"

"Yeah. I don't know why my Dad said that. Listen." He shifted a little, leaning closer, his eyes wide with a sickening sense of excitement. "And then mom said we could celebrate it outside. Somewhere else. But Daddy wouldn't agree. He it said it could be risky. So many people. So many 'lives'. That's what he said. 'Lives'. And then my mother agreed and that was it. Of course they don't know I heard them. I didn't tell them. Nor will you, to anyone, okay?"

I shrugged. "Fine. I won't."

"I went over to that house again yesterday."

"What!"

"Yeah…"

"Well, did you see anything?"

"No. But I went in."

"Alone?"

"What else?"

"What did you see?"

"I…I felt like someone was watching me."

"What!"

"And then a window opened up. And then the door closed."

Now if there was one thing I was thankful to God for, it was that I hadn't been there inside with Eddie. Because I had clearly had enough for a lifetime.

"Ed?" Uncle Ben called and a moment later came into the room. "Your mother has come to pick you up. Says it's urgent."

"Okay," Eddie said, and got off the bed. "See you tomorrow Peter."

"Yeah," I said and watched him go out.

Two weeks later, in the evening I and Uncle Ben went over to Eddie's present place, just to pay a visit, for we had heard nothing of them for the last fourteen days, and partly because of my constant pleads to go play with Eddie. We arrived before his house only to find some officials moving the furniture out and emptying the house.

"Excuse me," Uncle Ben said to a man, who seemed like the in-charge "but doesn't this house belong to Carl Brock?"

"It did," said the man, "They moved from here, most likely."

"Where did the Brock's go?" Uncle Ben asked one of the officials.

"They moved out two weeks ago," said the man.

"Two weeks?"

The man nodded. "We got notified yesterday."

"Really? Any idea where they must have gone?"

"No, they left without notice. Heard they left in just one night. We just got a call yesterday that this house needed to be cleared."

I rushed inside, not knowing why. All the posters were gone. All the stickers on the walls were gone. There was nothing but cobwebs and dust in the room. I went over to Eddie's room, which was the first bedroom from the door. My eyes fell upon a blank sheet of paper among the dirt on the floor below the window across the room. I picked it up and turned it around. There, in green and red, were scrambled:

Happy Birthday Peter!

I recognized Eddie's handwriting. I scanned the entire sheet, but nothing else was written on it.

It was not after another few weeks did I come to know that the old house of the Brocks at Stephen's Street had been reduced to the ground.

I had a feeling that the day before my ninth birthday was the last time I had seen Edward Charles Allan Brock.

He never came to my birthday.

And I never saw him again.

-o0o-

Peter Parker decided to keep the diary with him. He closed the lid of the crate and carried it to the doorway. He turned to look at the room that had been his for around fifteen years now. Nostalgia swept over him. He closed the door gently, and headed down the stairs along with the crate to help his aunt settle all the mess.