The Blue Room at Rosen’s

I never expected to find my great-grandmother’s funeral in a converted Victorian mansion on the outskirts of a city I barely knew. The place was called Rosen’s Funeral Home, and it had a certain faded elegance—peeling wallpaper, creaking floorboards, and a musty smell that clung to the drapes. My grandmother, Elsie, had insisted on this place because it was where her own mother’s service had been held, decades ago. My family and I drove up from our small town—my parents, my sister, and me—and I felt the familiar prickling at the back of my neck as soon as we pulled into the gravel driveway.

I’ve always been sensitive to the other side. Not in a dramatic, ghost-hunting way, but in the way that I can feel the weight of history in old places, the lingering presence of those who’ve passed. Funeral homes are particularly heavy, especially on days like this, when grief and love create a conduit for spirits to draw closer. As we entered, I saw the chapel at the front, a small alcove with the coffin draped in white lilies. My sister, Clara, and I went to pay our respects before the service. As I leaned over to place a rose on the polished wood, I felt a cold breath on my ear, like a whisper without sound. I looked around, but we were alone. I chalked it up to my nerves.

The service was a blur of hymns and eulogies. My great-grandmother, Nana Rose, had lived to a hundred and two, and her life was a tapestry of stories. The room was filled with about thirty people—relatives, old friends, and a few strangers I assumed were from the care home where she spent her last years. After the service, we moved to an adjoining parlor for tea and finger sandwiches. The parlor was papered in a faded blue, with tall windows letting in the gray afternoon light. It was there that things began to feel wrong.

As I sipped my tea, I noticed a door at the far end of the parlor, slightly ajar. It was painted a darker shade of blue, almost navy, and had a brass knob that seemed to catch the light oddly. I asked my mother if it led to the office or a back corridor. She shrugged, saying she hadn’t noticed it before. Curious, I wandered over and peeked through the crack. Inside was a small room, empty except for a single wooden chair facing a wall covered in faded floral paper. A strange sense of longing washed over me, and I instinctively stepped inside.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the door clicked shut behind me. I spun around, but the knob wouldn’t turn. The room felt colder, and the air was thick with dust. On the wall in front of the chair, I noticed faint scratches—almost like fingernail marks, but too regular. I ran my fingers over them, and they seemed to spell out a name: ‘Margaret.’ That was Nana’s name. My heart began to race. I pushed against the door, but it was as if something held it from the other side.

From the parlor, I could hear muffled laughter and the clinking of cups, but it seemed distant, as if a thick blanket had been thrown over the sound. I turned back to the chair, and now there was a figure sitting in it—a woman in a gray dress, her back to me, head bowed. I knew it wasn’t my nana; she looked younger, more solid. I tried to speak, but my voice caught. The woman slowly turned her head, revealing a face that was both familiar and not—high cheekbones, sharp nose, but her eyes were hollow, black pits. She pointed a trembling finger at the wall behind me. I turned, and on the peeling wallpaper was a message, written in what looked like dried brown streaks: ‘I am still here.’

The room felt like it was closing in. The woman in the chair began to fade, but her mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I flinched. It was my sister, who had somehow opened the door from the other side. ‘What are you doing in here?’ she asked, her face full of concern. ‘You were standing there, staring at the wall. Are you okay?’ I looked back, and the message and the chair were gone. The room was empty, just a storage space with boxes. I asked Clara if she saw anything, but she just shook her head.

Later, as we were leaving, I approached the funeral director, a Mrs. Hargrove, and asked about the blue room. Her face paled. ‘That room has been locked for years,’ she said. ‘It was the old viewing room before we renovated. A woman died there—Margaret, I think—waiting for her son who never came. They say she still waits.’ I told her the door was open, but she insisted it was always locked. I didn’t tell her what I saw. I didn’t tell her about the message. But as we drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Nana’s spirit had guided me there for a reason. She had always talked about her aunt Margaret, who had died alone. Maybe Nana was trying to tell me that Margaret was finally found. I never found out, but I knew that some rooms in funeral homes hold more than the living’s grief.

That night, I had a dream. I was back in the blue room, the chair empty, but the wall was covered in names—all the women in my family, including mine, written in that same brown streaks. I woke up with a start, my hand tingling. I looked at my palm, and there were faint red scratches forming the word ‘remember.’ I’ve never forgotten. And I never returned to Rosen’s Funeral Home.