The Broom Incident

It had been three years since we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Millbrook, a town so small it barely warranted a name on the map. My brother Leo, my sister Vera, and I had pooled our savings to buy the place, lured by the cheap price and the promise of land. We were all in our late twenties, none of us married, and the idea of a shared home felt more like a necessity than a dream. Vera, the youngest at twenty-four, had claimed a room in the attic, a cramped space with sloping ceilings and a single dormer window that looked out onto the overgrown orchard. She had always wanted her own room, ever since we shared a tiny apartment in the city, and this attic with its peeling flower wallpaper and the faint smell of mothballs was hers alone.

That evening, I was sprawled on the worn-out sofa in the living room, watching Vera play a new survival horror game on her laptop. The screen flickered with ghostly images, and she was narrating her every move with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. ‘This game is insane, Mira,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the screen. ‘It’s like the monsters can hear you. You have to be so quiet.’ I laughed, but a strange unease prickled at my skin. The farmhouse was old, and it had a way of settling with creaks and groans that we had grown used to, but tonight, the silence felt thicker.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm, her playing and me half-watching, when she began to talk about our upcoming move. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted a room that was truly mine,’ she mused, pausing the game. ‘When Mom kicked us out of that bedroom and made me move in with you, I hated it. I used to dream about having my own space, where no one would bother me.’ I nodded, recalling the cramped apartment we’d shared after Dad left. ‘Well, you’ve got your attic,’ I said. ‘It’s yours.’ She smiled, but then her eyes widened. A loud, violent smack rang out from the kitchen. The broom that usually leaned against the wall near the pantry had fallen flat onto the tile floor, its bristles splayed out like a frozen spider.

We both froze, staring at the kitchen doorway. The sound had been sharp, deliberate. ‘The hell?’ Leo said from the stairwell, his footsteps hurried. He came into the living room, his face pale. ‘Did you hear that?’ Vera had stood up, her game forgotten. ‘It fell,’ she whispered, pointing at the kitchen. I walked over, my heart thumping, and picked up the broom. It was an ordinary broom, worn wooden handle, frayed straw. I hung it back on the hook by the pantry, making sure it was secure. ‘It must have been off balance,’ I said, trying to sound casual. But my hands were trembling.

We tried to shake it off, returning to our evening, but the mood was broken. Vera resumed her game, but she kept glancing toward the kitchen. Leo suggested we watch a movie, and we settled on some comedy, but the laughter felt forced. At midnight, we went to our respective rooms. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house’s sounds. The wind outside rattled the windows, and the old beams groaned. And then I heard it again: a soft thump, followed by a rustling, like something dragging across the tile floor. I got up, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and crept down the stairs.

The kitchen was bathed in moonlight. The broom was lying on the floor again. And this time, it was positioned differently, the bristles pointing toward the back door, as if someone had laid it down deliberately. My blood went cold. I didn’t touch it. I just stood there, shivering, and then I backed away.

The next morning, I told Leo and Vera. They exchanged glances, clearly thinking I was overreacting. But Vera said, ‘Maybe it’s the ghost of the old farmer. The guy who used to live here.’ We had heard the rumors when we bought the place: a recluse who died alone, leaving his house to rot. We had laughed it off. Now, a knot formed in my stomach. ‘It’s just a broom,’ Leo said, but he avoided the kitchen for the rest of the day.

That night, we were all in the living room again, playing cards. The kitchen door was open, and I could see the broom leaning against the wall. But as we played, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it start to move. It slid down the wall, slowly, then clattered to the floor. We all jumped. Leo swore. Vera laughed nervously. ‘Okay, that is not normal,’ she said. I walked over, my heart racing, and picked it up. This time, I put it in the small closet under the stairs, away from sight. ‘There,’ I said, ‘no more broom.’

But the feeling persisted. That night, I woke to a sound like someone sweeping the floor above my room. The attic. Vera’s room. I rushed up the stairs, my heart pounding, to find Vera standing in the middle of her room, white as a sheet, holding a broom. ‘Mira,’ she whispered, ‘I found this under my bed.’

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the living room, the lights blazing, and we tried to rationalize it. Maybe a draft, maybe a prank. But we all knew something was wrong. The next day, we decided to move up our plans. We had already found a house to rent in the nearby town, and we started packing frantically. But every time we turned around, we would find the broom in a different place: propped against the front door, lying across the kitchen counter, resting in the hallway. It was as if it was following us.

On the last night before we were to leave, we sat in the empty living room, the boxes packed, the broom secured in the basement. We tried to relax, but the air was heavy. Then, at the stroke of midnight, the lights flickered. And we heard a voice, a dry, raspy whisper, from the attic: ‘Leave me your company.’

We ran. We grabbed what we could and drove to a motel, not looking back. The next day, we told the real estate agent to sell the farmhouse, no questions. We never went back to retrieve the broom. And now, living in a small apartment in the city, we try to forget. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a faint sound, like something brushing against the floor. And I think about that broom, and I wonder if it’s still there, waiting. Every object has a story, and some stories never end.