The Blue Static of Room 17

Our anniversary trip was meant to be a quiet escape to a bed-and-breakfast nestled in the Vermont woods, a converted farmhouse with creaking floors and a history of being a way station for the Underground Railroad. We were drawn to its faded photographs and the stories of former guests who claimed the walls hummed with memory. I was a skeptic, but my husband, Leo, was a believer.

It was our first night. The room was small, with a patchwork quilt and a window that looked out onto the pine forest. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when a wave of dizziness hit me. I grabbed the porcelain sink, closed my eyes, and the world tilted. I blamed it on the long drive and the rich dinner we’d had at the inn’s restaurant. Leo was already in bed, reading by the lamp. I flicked off the bathroom light and stepped out, my foot on the cold wood floor, when Leo’s breath caught.

I turned to see him staring at the bathroom, his face pale. ‘What?’ I asked. He shook his head, put down his book, and said, ‘Nothing, just a bit tired.’ But his eyes were fixed on that small room. I let it go, thinking he was just susceptible to the inn’s atmosphere. I got into bed, and we lay in silence. I felt a strange nausea, like a stone in my stomach, but I said nothing. Leo got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door. I heard the water run, then stop. He was in there for a long time. When he came out, he was thoughtful, but he kissed my forehead and said, ‘Let’s get some sleep.’ I felt the weight of his worry like a blanket.

The next morning, over weak coffee and scones, Leo finally told me. He described the flash: a brilliant blue, like a camera flash, that filled the entire bathroom when I stepped out. It lasted maybe half a second, but it was unmistakable. He tried to recreate it by flicking the light switch, opening and closing the door, even shining his phone’s flashlight, but nothing matched the intensity. That night, I saw something myself. I woke to a faint hum, like static from an old television. The room was dark, but there was a soft blue glow seeping from under the bathroom door. I nudged Leo, and we both sat up. The glow intensified until the whole room was bathed in icy light, and the hum grew to a shriek. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped, leaving us in darkness and silence. A wave of dizziness made me see stars, and I felt my stomach drop.

We didn’t sleep again. At dawn, we approached the innkeeper, a kind woman with grey hair and a knowing look. We told her about the blue light. She set down her teacup and said, ‘Ah, that would be the static. They say when the wires were being installed, a young traveler died here. A photographer, they think, from the war. He was found in that room, his camera still in his hands, but the film was blank. Sometimes, when the moon is just right, people see the flash. It’s like he’s still trying to take a picture.’ That night, we found an old photograph in the lobby, hidden behind the check-in desk. It was dated 1864, and it showed a young man standing in front of the inn, holding a box camera. On the back, in pencil, was inscribed: ‘For the ones I lost. May their faces shine in the glass.’

We decided to revisit the room one last time before leaving. I stood in the doorway, and Leo cranked up his phone’s camera, hoping to catch anything. The bathroom was small, ordinary, with a clawfoot tub and a mirror. As I stepped forward, the dizziness returned, stronger. I felt a tug, like hands on my shoulders, and the world flipped. I found myself on the floor, and Leo was shaking me, his face frantic. ‘You were glowing,’ he whispered. ‘You were faint, like a ghost.’ He showed me the video. It was black, but there was a flicker of blue at the edge, and my body was translucent. My heart pounded. I grabbed his arm. ‘We need to go. Now.’ As we drove away, the inn shrinking in the rearview mirror, I felt a chill. The nausea was gone, but I had a new symptom: I could swear I heard the faint click of a shutter every time I blinked.