The Cinder Room

In the autumn of 2005, I was house-sitting for an old colleague in a sleepy coastal town named Grayharbor. The house was a narrow Victorian perched on a cliff, with a view of the churning sea. It had once been a coastguard’s quarters, and the locals said it was haunted by the ghost of a lighthouse keeper who had gone mad. But I was skeptical.

My colleague’s daughter, a bright-eyed six-year-old named Lily, often played in a small study at the end of the hallway. She would sit on the worn Persian rug, chattering and giggling as if conversing with an unseen friend. The first time I heard her, I paused, a chill running down my spine. Her voice was light, but the rhythm was unsettling—as if she were answering questions no one had asked.

I never entered that room. Every time I approached, a wave of nausea and dread washed over me, and I would retreat to the kitchen, telling myself it was just the old house settling. But the feeling was stronger than mere creaky floorboards.

One stormy night, I retired early, exhausted from the constant howling of the wind. I woke at 11:32 PM, my bladder urgent. The house was pitch black, the power flickering from the storm. I padded down the hallway, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and as I reached the bathroom door, I felt an irresistible pull to glance into the living room on my right.

There, in the faint glow of lightning, I saw a figure—a tall, gaunt man in an old-fashioned coastguard uniform. He stood by the window, staring out at the sea, his face partially obscured. I froze, my heart pounding. He turned slowly, and his eyes met mine. They were hollow, black pits, and his mouth stretched into a grin that was too wide.

I stumbled back, but my legs were heavy. The figure gestured with a long, bony finger toward the study at the end of the hall. Lily’s room. I heard her giggle again, and then a child’s voice, sweet and clear, said, ‘He wants to play with you.’

I backed away, and the figure dissolved into the darkness. I fled to my room, locked the door, and did not sleep. The next morning, I told my colleague I had to leave. She looked at me with a knowing sadness and said, ‘He only appears to those who listen.’

I never returned to Grayharbor. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that giggle echoing in my mind, and I know the cinder room still waits for its next visitor.