The Borrowed Room

In the autumn of 1995, my husband, Walter, and I had just moved into a sprawling Victorian house in the quiet town of Millbrook. The house was beautiful, with high ceilings and ornate moldings, but it had a melancholy air, as if it were holding its breath. I spent my mornings in bed, relishing the peace before the day began. One such morning, as I lay half-awake, I heard a soft, lilting voice beside me say, “Mommy.” It was so sweet, so innocent, that I smiled and thought of our daughter, who was away at college. I turned, expecting to see her playing a prank, but the room was empty. The voice had been so close, I could have felt the breath. Yet I felt no fear, only a strange warmth, as if the house itself had offered a tender greeting.

A month later, Walter was rummaging through the study, searching for a pack of cigarettes he had hidden from himself. He was down on his hands and knees, peering under the heavy oak desk, when a small, clear voice asked, “What are you doing?” Startled, he shot up, his heart pounding. He thought it was me, but I was in the kitchen, and the voice was distinctly that of a child. He called out my name, but there was no reply. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. He later told me that he felt a cold draft, and the hair on his arms stood up. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he wasn’t alone. He fled the house, his hands shaking, and I found him on the porch, chain-smoking.

We tried to rationalize it. A creaky house, a neighbor’s child, a prank. But the occurrences were too specific, too intimate. I began to research the house’s history. In the local archives, I discovered that a family with a young daughter had lived here in the early 1900s. The girl, named Eleanor, had died of scarlet fever at the age of six. Her mother was said to be heartbroken, and the family moved away shortly after. I couldn’t help but wonder if Eleanor was still here, longing for the mother she had lost. Why did she call me that? Was it a mistake, or a deliberate act of seeking comfort?

Walter refused to speak of it. He began sleeping in the guest room, and soon, he moved out entirely. I stayed, despite the whispers of the town. I felt a connection to this little girl, this phantom child. I would sometimes leave a glass of milk and a cookie by the window, and in the morning, it would be gone. I never saw her, but I felt her presence, a gentle tug on my sleeve, a fleeting shadow in the corner of my eye. I began to speak to her, telling her about my day, reading to her from the old books in the library. It was a strange companionship, but it eased my loneliness.

Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. I felt the house empty, the stillness returned. I searched for her, called her name, but there was nothing. I think she found peace, or perhaps she found her real mother. I don’t know. Sometimes, I hear a faint giggle in the hallway, or the patter of bare feet on the stairs, but when I turn, there is nothing. I believe that the ghost of a child, like any lost soul, seeks only what it never had. And sometimes, only the ghost knows why it was there, and where it has gone. I like to think that I gave her a little comfort, and that she gave me a reason to stay in that beautiful, haunted house.