Behind the Locked Door - By Chameli Ranmandala

Written By: Chameli Ranmandala

Category: Short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the compelling short story "Behind the Locked Door," Chameli Ranmandala captivates readers with a poignant narrative that delves into themes of survival, resilience, and familial bonds amidst turmoil. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this evocative tale stands out in the short story category, offering a glimpse into the lives of those caught in the throes of conflict. Chameli's storytelling invites us to ponder the strength of human spirit and the enduring hope that persists even in the darkest of times.

About the Work

"Behind the Locked Door" is a harrowing yet hopeful story that explores the experiences of a family navigating the chaos of war. Chameli Ranmandala's vivid imagery and emotional depth draw readers into a world where safety is a mere locked door away. Through the eyes of a young protagonist, the narrative captures the fear, confusion, and unwavering love that bind a family together. The story's mood oscillates between despair and hope, highlighting the resilience required to endure and the small acts of kindness that illuminate the path forward.

Behind the locked door

Original Submission by Chameli Ranmandala

Behind the locked door

The room was small, barely enough for the four of us to move. The air was thick with dampness, like wet clothes left too long in the dark. I pressed my ear against the withery wooden door, and it feared me for a second to think that it was the only thing between us and the scary world outside. Boom! I could hear the bombs again from a distance. Loud, angry thuds that made the walls tremble and the windows shatter. People screamed in every direction, their voices rising and breaking – some screamed in pain, some in fear and some in ways that I didn't understand. My mum said not to listen, but I couldn't help it. I wanted to know what was happening out there, even if it scared me.

My dad sat in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring at a sky that offered no answer. He used to take me to school and play with me, now he just rocks back and forth, whispering prayers I didn't know. My mum tried to stay strong. She told us stories about the sea and about birds that flew away freely.

“In the end, they all lived happily ever after," she said, ending her story.

But her voice shook, and sometimes she stopped mid-sentence to wipe her eyes. I pretended not to notice. My little 9-year-old sister, Elly, clung to my mum’s leg, her eyes wide and silent. She hadn't spoken much since the last explosion. I was the oldest. 13 years old. Old enough to understand that this room, this locked door was our last safe place. But I also knew that it couldn't protect us forever.

My mom talks to Elly, strokes her hair, feeds her bits of stale bread and my dad prays. Sometimes he looks at me, but his eyes slide past like I’m part of the wall. So, I stay quiet and draw pictures in the dust on the floor- houses with gardens, skies with no smoke. I imagine a door that opens to sunlight, not sirens.

“Will we all survive?”, I muttered looking at all the scars in my hands.

I still remember the day I got these scars. I was 11 then and Elly was 7. It was a normal day like any other, and the sun had just risen, painting our street in gold, and we were ready to go to school. Our house was beautiful then-white walls, blue shutters, a garden full of flowers. Elly was still brushing her hair, and my dad was sipping tea on the front porch.

Then the world cracked open.

A sound like thunder but much sharper and angrier tore through the air. The ground shook, and the windows shattered with a crash. Back then I didn't know it was called a bomb. I thought maybe the sky had fallen. I remember the heat, the sudden rush of wind and the way the bright light turned brown with dust within just seconds. I was thrown to the ground, my hands scraping against the gravel. That’s when the glass hit me, tiny shards sliced into my palms, making them bleed.

I screamed. Not because of the pain but because everything felt wrong. People were running, shouting names, prayers and warnings. Dust filled my lungs, bitter and dry clinging to the back of my throat as I coughed. Smoke curled through the streets like snakes. I saw a man with a gun yelling at someone to move. A woman collapsed near our gate, clutching her child. The sirens wailed, but they sounded far away as if they were drowning in the noise.

My mum grabbed me, her hands shaking. She pulled Elly closer to her and wrapped my bleeding palms in her scarf, although her legs were already covered in blood. My dad was shouting for us to get inside, but there was no inside anymore, the front of our house was already gone. Just fire and the smell of something burning that I never want to smell again.

We didn’t go to school that day. We didn’t go anywhere for a long time until someone came, a soldier, I think, and said that we had to leave since it wasn't safe anymore.

They took us to this house, the one with the locked door, and the walk to this tiny house wasn't that long-maybe 45 minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. We didn’t take the main road that day, apparently it was too dangerous. So, we weaved through alleys, broken fences and streets. The streets that were once filled with laughter are now pooled with blood, and screams. Mama gasped and pulled Elly closer to her, pressing her face into her shoulder. There were dead bodies all over, some covered with sheets. Some not.

“Don’t look, baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Just keep walking.” Papa moved in front of us, shielding her with his body.

“Stay between us,” he said.

But no one covered mine. I saw everything- the dead bodies, people running around, carrying their kids in their arms — limp, silent and eyes closed. Their eyes spoke more than their words could, but I was too small to understand what they meant. An ambulance sped past us, sirens screaming, tires skidding over shattered glass. We passed the road where I used to play football with the neighbourhood kids-the one with the crooked goalpost and the chalk lines we drew ourselves. That road was red now. Blood soaked the pavement where we used to chase the ball, where we used to laugh and fall and argue over who scored. A shoe lay abandoned, and I recognized it immediately. It belonged to Sami, the boy who always played goalkeeper, the one who used to dive like a superhero.

Now there were no games. Just tears and blood. I didn’t cry nor did I speak. I just walked with my head down.

Elly kept asking questions. “Why are they sleeping on the road?” “Why is that man shouting?” “Why is Mama crying?”

No one answered.

When we reached the house, Mama unlocked the door with shaking hands.

“Inside,” she said. “Quickly.”

We stepped into the small room, and the door shut behind us. The world outside disappeared but it didn’t leave me. That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and that traumatic experience replayed repeatedly in my head. I wanted to ask Mama why no one covered my eyes, why I had to see it all, but I didn’t.

Fortunately, it was quiet here. But I had to constantly-remind myself that quiet doesn't mean it’s safe. Quiet just means that the danger hasn't found us yet. “Kevin, are you okay?” mama asked, bringing me back to my senses.

I nodded although I wasn’t. I didn’t want her to worry about me. At school, I was the boy who ran the fastest. The one who climbed the mango tree without falling. Simply, I was the most athletic even though I wasn’t really good at my studies. Elly was always the smart one. She’d sit with our mum and trace letters in the air even before she could write her full name. At school, her notebooks were filled with neat lines and tiny stars from her teachers. Her voice was full of excitement when she was quizzing me on math problems.

That morning – the morning that everything changed, she was packing her bag with extra pencils, just in case someone forgot theirs. I remember her fussing over a torn page in her science book, trying to tape it back together. She was worried about being late, worried about everything except the sound that was about to split our world in two.

When the explosion hit, she grabbed her books before screaming or running. All her books were half burnt, the pages were curled like dried leaves, and she held them to her chest like they could protect her. I saw her eyes wide and confused, asking questions no one could answer.

“Why did this happen?”, she questioned. “Who would do this?”

I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t.

Now, in this locked room, she still clutches those books. The covers are blackened; the words are smudged but she reads them anyway. She wants to keep learning even when the world outside is falling apart. I try to help her. I really do. I make up answers when I don’t the real ones. I draw diagrams in the dust and pretend I’m her teacher because someone has to help her. Someone must help her believe that she’ll go back to a real classroom one day where she will raise her hand and answer every question right.

I’m just her 13-year-old brother but I’ll be her school if I have to.

The sound of boots snapped me back. Mama looked at me, her face pale but steady.

“Go before the line gets too long”, she said.

I nodded, already slipping on my worn shoes. I was the fastest in school once, the boy who outran everyone during races and now that speed helped us survive. The food station was far from our little, locked room even past the broken buildings and the checkpoint where soldiers holding guns sometimes stood. They gave out food only once a week. I would line up before anyone so I can get more food. It had always been dry bread, a few potatoes, steamed rice and sometimes a tin of baked beans if you were lucky.

Elly wasn't allowed to come because mama said it was too dangerous, but she always begged, asking if she could at least just watch. I said no. Every time.

Until one day, she followed me. She didn’t say anything, just appeared beside me, her hands clutching her book like a shield. That day I didn’t run. I walked slowly, hoping no one would notice but they did.

“That’s him, he’s always first”, someone shouted. “He takes too much!”

“He’s greedy”, another voice snapped. “Look at him, bringing his sister now too?”

I felt the heat rise in my face. My hands trembled. I wanted to explain that I didn't take too much and that we shared it among the four of us and that mama made the food last, but the words wouldn’t come. I just stood there frozen as the voices grew louder. Elly looked up at me, confused. I bent down and covered her ears with my hands so she wouldn’t hear people mocking me.

We didn’t get food that week. Mama didn't ask any questions and neither did I tell her anything what happened at the food station. She just held us close as she stared at the empty corner where she used to keep the food. I remember waking up to the smell of her cooking, meat simmering in spices, rice steaming in the pot and laughter at the dining table. But now that smell was gone and it was replaced by dampness and silence.

We lay down that night, stomachs aching and hearts heavier than ever. The air was still, heavy with silence and our bodies curled into each other like puzzle pieces. The room had grown colder over the past few days, not even Mama’s stories could warm us anymore.

Then, the door creaked slowly, like it hadn’t been touched in years. Not the usual groan from the wind or the shifting walls. This was different. Intentional and slow. We all sat up, startled, our hearts pounding. Dad reached for the rusted metal rod that he had always kept near the blankets and mama stretched her arms around me and Elly, pulling us closer to her.

The door opened fully, and a woman stood there-her face streaked with blood and soot, her eyes looked drained. Behind her, two children clung to her torn dress. One was a boy, maybe eight, with a swollen lip and a missing shoe. The other was a girl, younger than Elly, her cheeks swollen with dried tears and dust. The woman didn’t speak at first. She just looked at us with eyes that had seen too much, her chest rising and falling like she’d run for miles. Her eyes scanned the room, then settled on Mama.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just for tonight.”

Mama didn’t hesitate and wrapped her arms around the woman like she’d known her forever.

“You'll can come in,” she said softly, guiding them inside.

The children collapsed onto the floor as if they were too tired to cry. The woman sat against the wall, her hands shaking.

“We were five,” she said after a long silence. “My husband… he tried to convince the soldiers for extra food and medicine for our newborn, but he got shot. My baby… was only six months, he starved days without food, and his heart couldn't take the bombs.”

Her voice cracked and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her story made all of us emotional where mama knelt beside her, wiping her tears and blood from her forehead with the last clean cloth we had.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said. “You have us.”

That night, we became a family. We shared the blankets. We made space where there was none. The children played with Elly’s books, tracing letters with their fingers.

“On écrit sur les murs le nom de ceux qu’on aime, des messages pour les jours à venir...” us kids sang as our parents looked at us.

At the end, after everything, I saw a smile on papa and mama’s faces for the first time in years.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in poetry and creative writing. It invites participants worldwide to share their unique stories and perspectives, fostering a global community of writers. This competition is renowned for its commitment to nurturing creativity and providing a stage for emerging talents to shine, offering participants the opportunity to engage with a wide audience and contribute to the literary landscape.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Chameli Ranmandala for sharing "Behind the Locked Door" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story, rich with emotion and insight, deeply resonates with readers and exemplifies the power of storytelling. We are grateful for your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your creative work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.