The Cinder Room

I’d been house-sitting for my aunt and uncle for a week when I decided to use my cousin’s old bedroom. It was the only one with a decent spare bed and a TV, and I thought I’d be comfortable there. My cousin, Lila, had asked me repeatedly if I was sure, her eyes darting to the door at the end of the hall as if expecting something to burst through. I laughed it off, said I’d be fine. That night, after my relatives had retired to their side of the house, I lay in that room, watching a late-night comedy special. The laughter felt hollow, and a wave of gloom settled over me like a damp blanket. I couldn’t shake it. The TV’s glow seemed dimmer, the corners of the room darker. I turned it off and tried to sleep, but the air grew thick and heavy, pressing down on my chest. Then, from the closet, I heard it: a low, guttural chuckle, the sound of a throat full of ash. I called out for the housekeeper, an older woman named Mrs. Harlow who lived in a cottage by the garden. No answer. The laughter grew, a crackling, inhuman sound, and I scrambled for the light switch. But the moment my fingers touched it, the room plunged into absolute blackness. I fumbled for my phone, and in its eerie glow, I saw a faint shimmer in the corner, like heat rising from a dying fire. A voice, dry as old bone, whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have come to the cinder room.’ I spent the rest of the night huddled against the headboard, reciting every prayer I knew. By dawn, the darkness receded, leaving me drenched in cold sweat. I never went back in that room, and when my family returned, I made excuses for why I’d slept on the couch. But even now, sometimes, I smell smoke and hear that laugh, and I know the cinder room is waiting for its next guest.