Red Door Yellow Door Stories Novels & Stories

“B.C. It’s going to lead people back to Brick since Camille—the author of that article—has a connection to both you and Gabby, and you’re closely related to him.” Kaitlynn blinked at him once, then threw her head back and laughed. And while she was busy not-catching on, I strolled further into the room to snag an apple from the basket on the coffee table, and I plopped down next to her. “But that’s ridiculous,” she finally said, slapping my leg. “Brick’s not…” Voice falling quiet, she turned slowly to look at me. “Oh my God,” she rasped before smacking my leg again, but harder this time. “You’re Black Crimson?”

I could feel his tension pouring off him in waves. I felt the heartbeat pounding through his palm where it met mine. That throb of nervous energy. The way his breath caught whenever we passed an open door. The Red Rooms spilled moans into the hallway, full view of a woman gagging around cock with tears running down her cheeks and mascara smudged like war paint. Blue Room—one woman restrained, a man drawing teasing circles on his thighs with a riding crop. Every doorway was a story. Every glance was permission or a dare. And Ryden was seeing all of it.

The lamp in the corner flickered once like it was about to give up, then settled into a dull yellow glow that painted long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The air in Room 14 felt heavier now, thick with the smell of rain-soaked clothes, sex, and the sharp edge of too much want. No one had bothered to turn off the neon Vacancy sign outside. Red light bled through the thin curtains, pulsing in time with our breathing. Riley was the first to move again. She pushed off the bed, naked skin still flushed, dark hair sticking to her neck in wet strands.

"Each door holds a truth. Some are small. Some are large enough to swallow you. You must pass through seven to reach the door behind the door. But be warned. The truths behind the doors are not merely memories. They are living things. They have grown in the dark. They have become hungry. And they do not wish to be disturbed." Eliana looked at the twelve doors. Some were closed. Some were ajar. Some seemed to breathe. Door number three, painted a deep ocean blue, was rattling on its hinges. Door number eleven, black as a starless night, was weeping. The sound of it was a low, rhythmic sobbing that matched her own heartbeat. "Why seven?" she asked. "Why not all twelve?"

I walked quietly toward the house and noticed the door was slightly open. I frowned in confusion. Rafael wasn’t supposed to be home yet. Curious, I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. As I walked toward the bedroom, I heard low noises coming from the last room down the hallway. My steps slowed. What was that sound? My heart started beating faster as I moved closer to the door. Then I heard soft moans. My eyes widened. Slowly, I pushed the door open. The sight in front of me made my entire body freeze.

It's a door across the street, with no windows or anything for me to see what's happening inside. The door with red lights around it. There's no name. There's something painted in the middle of that single door, resembling the curves of a sexy woman's body. It's just an outline, not very detailed. "Isn't this dangerous, Ash?" I asked, still staring at the red door with red lights, perhaps to accentuate the white paint of the woman's body. She unbuckled her seatbelt while we both watched two men open the red door and enter. "Nope, maybe for me, but I've been going in there for a few Saturdays now," she replied, referring to the red door.

There were all polka dotted with red and yellow but some were red with yellow polka dots while the others were yellow with red dots. “Oh, I see. Some have a red background with yellow dots and the others are yellow while the dots are red,” she answered. “Exactly!” He exclaimed, his eyes bright with excitement. “A seemingly small difference but vital!” He roared. Cory jumped. “Sorry! I am a lover of mushrooms,” he said. “There is a poem,” he continued. “Red on yellow, A fine fellow, Yellow on Red, Good as dead,” he recited. Cory understood immediately.

THE MAN IN YELLOW

He asked, "Remember this? At Harrowell Library, you were reading by the window. The sun was shining on you, and I thought there wouldn't be anyone in the world as beautiful as you." I snapped the box shut. "The past is the past." "I can't let it go. I just can't," he said, all serious. Rain poured down in Hudson City that night. I figured he would leave, but then security called me way past midnight. "Ms. Douglas, Mr. Carter's still downstairs." I peeked out the window, and there he was—standing in the rain, stubborn as ever. "Let him in." I sighed. He was soaked through when he stood at my door, looking like a total mess.

Our conversation would have to wait until morning. "This way," Star called with a lift of her chin. Reluctantly, I turned away from the others and followed her. I followed Star down the long hall, passing several doors until we reached a room at the end. "It's all yours," Star said. "I call it the yellow room." "Well, that's... interesting," I said as I pushed open the door. Everything in the room was an overwhelming shade of yellow. My lips parted. "You weren't joking. I don't think I've ever seen so much yellow in one place before."