The Blue Room of Sunday

My wife and I were not prepared for what happened that Sunday, two months ago, in the old Victorian house of her sister, Helena. Helena and her husband were at the hospital, welcoming their third child, a girl, while we were taking care of their two boys, Leo and Mason. The house stood at the edge of a maple forest, its rooms filled with antique furniture and the smell of dust and old paper. We had been there since Friday, and the boys, ages four and three, were wild with excitement about the new baby, their ‘listening ears’ broken.

It was Sunday morning, and we were trying to get them dressed to visit the hospital. Leo, the four-year-old, had just come from the bathroom, his face still wet with water, while I wrestled Mason into his shoes, who was giggling and squirming like a fish. My wife, Rachel, was in the kitchen, preparing bottles, and I shouted for her to bring the wipes. The house was creaking with the wind outside, and the radiators clanked. That’s when Mason stopped struggling, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above the staircase. ‘Who is that lady?’ he asked, pointing upward.

I turned, expecting to see Helena’s mother or a neighbor, but the hallway was empty. ‘There’s no one there, buddy,’ I said, but Mason’s chin trembled. ‘She is crying,’ he whispered. Leo, hearing this, dropped his toy truck and ran to my leg, hiding his face. ‘I saw her too,’ Leo said, his voice muffled. ‘She was in the blue room, she wants her baby back.’ My blood turned cold. The blue room was a small bedroom on the top floor, locked for years ever since Helena’s aunt passed away. We never told the boys about it, they couldn’t have known.

Rachel came in, holding the wipes, and saw our faces. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I tried to dismiss it, but Leo was shaking. ‘The lady said the baby is not hers,’ he said, ‘she wants to take the new one.’ That was it. I handed Mason to Rachel and ran up the stairs, two at a time. The door to the blue room was ajar, which was impossible, as I had checked it the day before. Inside, the air was stale and cold, and in the corner, an old crib stood, empty. On the windowsill, a faded photograph of Helena’s aunt, holding a baby, but the baby’s face was scratched out. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned quickly, but nothing was there. Only the sound of a soft lullaby coming from under the floorboards.

I ran back down, and we decided to leave immediately. We packed the boys in the car, and as we drove to the hospital, they both talked about the ‘lady in the blue dress’ who followed us. When we arrived, the baby girl was in the nursery, and through the glass, we saw her peaceful face. But then, the baby’s eyes opened, and she stared directly at me, with an intensity that was not newborn. It was as if someone else was looking out. I held my breath, and the baby smiled, a wide, unnatural smile.

We never returned to that house. Helena and her husband sold it at a loss. But sometimes, at night, I hear a faint lullaby coming from the baby monitor in our own home. My wife says it’s just static, but I know it’s the same tune from the blue room. And last week, the new baby, now two months old, said her first word: ‘Mine.’