The Boy in the Guest Room

I was six when it happened, the summer we moved into the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane. My dad was away on a business trip, leaving just me and my mom for the weekend. I always slept in her room when he was gone, the extra warmth and the sound of her breathing making the old house feel less vast and creaky.

That morning, I woke to the smell of bacon and pancakes drifting up from the kitchen. The sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting dancing patterns on the quilt. I stretched, feeling the familiar comfort of my mom’s side of the bed, still warm from her body. I pulled on my fuzzy robin’s-egg blue robe, the one with the torn pocket, and shuffled to the door.

I stepped into the hallway, my feet padding softly on the worn runner. The door to the guest room stood ajar, as it always did, the room filled with dusty boxes and old furniture. I rubbed my eyes, the sleep still crusted in the corners, and as I lowered my hands, I froze.

There was a boy in the guest room, standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor. He was wearing the exact same robe as me, the same shade of blue, the same torn pocket. His hair was the same messy brown, his face the same small, freckled face. He was me. A mirror image, but not in a mirror. He was solid, real, his chest rising and falling with breath.

I blinked, thinking it was a trick of the morning light, a shadow thrown by a coat rack. But he remained, his eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, a feeling that something was profoundly wrong. I wanted to call out to my mother, but my voice was stuck in my throat.

The boy tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion, and then his mouth opened. The voice that came out was not my voice. It was deeper, raspier, like an old man trying to mimic a child. ‘Hey, you,’ it said, the words dripping with malice.

Panic seized me. I turned and ran, my bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, my heart pounding in my ears. I flew down the stairs, nearly tripping over the last step, and burst into the kitchen. My mother was at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping a pancake. She turned, alarm on her face.

‘Mommy! There’s a boy in the guest room! He looks just like me, but he’s not me! He said ‘hey you’ in a scary voice!’ I gasped, clinging to her apron.

My mother frowned, setting down the spatula. She placed a reassuring hand on my head. ‘Honey, there’s no one in the guest room. I just checked it a minute ago when I got up. It’s just us.’ She knelt down, looking into my eyes. ‘You probably had a bad dream. The old house plays tricks on you sometimes.’

I shook my head, tears welling up. ‘No, Mommy, I swear! He was there! He looked exactly like me!’

My mother sighed, but her expression softened. ‘Okay, sweetie. I’ll go check. You stay here.’ She walked out of the kitchen, her footsteps creaking on the stairs. I stood there, trembling, listening. I heard her go into the guest room, then her footsteps return. She came back with a smile.

‘See? There’s nobody there. Just dust and boxes. Come on, let’s have some breakfast. You’ll feel better.’

I didn’t feel better. I ate my pancakes, but the image of that boy, my own face twisted in a cruel smirk, haunted me. For days, I avoided the guest room. I would run past it, eyes averted. My parents thought I was being silly, that it was a childhood fantasy.

But I knew what I saw. And sometimes, late at night, when the house was still, I would hear a faint whisper from that room: ‘Hey, you.’

I never went into that room again, not even as an adult. And when we moved away years later, I felt a sense of relief, as if a weight had been lifted. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I still wonder: if I had turned around that day, would he have been standing behind me, grinning with my own face, waiting to say something more? Or worse, would I have vanished, and he would have taken my place? The thought still sends chills down my spine. The boy in the guest room was me, but not me. And he was waiting.