The Blue Room’s Morning Ritual

My ex-husband, Marcus, and I used to live with his father in the old mill house on Winding Creek Road. We were always told that this house was haunted. There have been numerous things happen to a number of different people. But I wasn’t sure I believed it until that last summer.

Every morning, without fail, Marcus would get up to go work at the lumber mill. Our room was on the second floor, overlooking the creek. Because of all the stories, I was too afraid to sleep up there by myself. So Marcus would wake me up, and I’d shuffle downstairs to his sister’s room, a small space that used to be a parlor. I’d climb into her bed, and before he left, Marcus would come in and give me a kiss goodbye. I’d raise my hand to show him which side of the bed I was on, and he’d pat my shoulder, kiss my forehead, and head out the door.

On this particular morning, everything went as it always did. Marcus woke me with a gentle shake. I groggily made my way down to his sister’s room, where I slid under the covers, listening to the old house settle. A few minutes later, I heard his footsteps on the stairs, the floorboards creaking in that familiar way. The door opened, and I raised my hand from under the quilt, just like every other day. He came to the side of the bed, gave me a kiss, and left. The front door clicked shut.

Later that morning, I woke to the sound of fabric rustling. I rolled over and saw his sister, Elena, standing at the foot of the bed, folding a mound of laundry. The light from the window caught her face, but something was off. She wasn’t looking at the clothes; she was staring at me with a blank expression. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, and then I felt a chill as she whispered, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

I blinked, and she went back to folding, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. ‘What did you say?’ I asked. She looked up, confused. ‘I didn’t say anything. Did you have a bad dream?’ Her voice was hollow, and her eyes seemed to look right through me.

I got up, uneasy, and went to the kitchen to get some water. As I passed the living room, I noticed something odd: a photo on the mantelpiece, a picture of a woman in Victorian dress, holding a small child. I’d seen it before, but now the child’s face seemed different—its eyes were dark, hollow pits. I shivered and turned away.

That evening, Marcus came home, and I told him about the strange incident. He laughed it off, saying his sister was just tired. But later, when I went to the bathroom, I saw a message scrawled on the mirror in condensation: ‘GET OUT.’ I wiped it away with a trembling hand.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I insisted we stay in Elena’s room, leaving the door open. Around 3 AM, I heard footsteps in the hallway, slow and deliberate. They stopped right outside the door, and a shadow fell across the threshold. I reached for Marcus, but he was deep asleep. I whispered his name, but he wouldn’t wake. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, the shadow was gone.

The next morning, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed my bag and told Marcus I was leaving. He begged me to stay, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was turning against us. As I walked out the front door, I heard Elena’s voice from the porch, calling my name. I turned, and she was standing there with a sad smile. ‘You’ve always been smart,’ she said, and her eyes flickered to the window above, where I saw a figure watching—a woman with dark hair, wearing the same Victorian dress.

I never went back. Years later, I got a letter from Marcus saying he’d sold the house. He wrote that after I left, strange things escalated—whispers, cold spots, and one morning, he woke to find his hand covered in scratches. The new owners had the house blessed, but they still reported seeing a woman in a blue dress staring from the upstairs window.

I still have that letter, tucked in the back of a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, I dream of that house—the creaking stairs, the shadow in the doorway, and that voice whispering, ‘You shouldn’t have come back.’ But I never do. I never will again.