The Coal Room

We called it the coal room, though it hadn’t held coal in decades. It was just a small, windowless space off the kitchen, with a heavy iron door that my father always kept shut. He said it was for storage, but we never saw anything go in or out. As kids, my brother Sam and I were terrified of it, but we never knew why. It was just a door, sealed and silent, but it made the hairs on our arms stand up if we got too close. In the summer, the air around it was always cold, even when the rest of the house sweltered. In the winter, it was warmer than the rest of the house, as if something inside was breathing. Our mother told us to never touch the door, and we obeyed, because her voice had a sharp edge that didn’t allow questions.

That winter, we were sleeping on the floor of the living room, by the wood stove, because our bedrooms upstairs were too cold. We had a thick quilt and a ticking mattress, and we’d fall asleep to the crackle of the fire and the whistle of wind outside. My father would bank the stove before bed, and the embers would glow for hours, casting long shadows that danced on the walls. On this particular night, I woke to a strange quiet. The fire had died to a faint orange, and the room was dim and gray. I lay there, listening, and then I heard a scraping sound from the kitchen. It was rhythmic, like a slow, heavy breath. I sat up and looked around. My brother was fast asleep, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling. I looked toward the kitchen door, which was open a crack, and I saw a sliver of darkness that seemed to pulse. I wanted to call out for my father, but my voice was stuck in my throat. I watched the crack, and then I saw a shape—a hunched, dark shape—slip through the gap, too tall and too thin to be my father. It moved with a shambling gait, its long arms brushing the floor, and it went to the coal room door. It paused, and I saw its head turn toward me. I saw no eyes, only two faint, glowing red points, and I felt a wave of terror that made me gasp. It reached out a long, pale hand, and it touched the iron door. The door creaked open, and the thing slipped inside, pulling it shut with a soft thud that echoed in the silence.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke, the sun was up, and my father was shaking my shoulder. ‘Time to wake up, son,’ he said, his voice normal, but his eyes were tired. I tried to tell him what I saw, but the words came out jumbled, and he just laughed and ruffled my hair. ‘Must have been a nightmare,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in the coal room.’ But I knew what I saw. For weeks, I couldn’t pass the coal room without my heart racing. I’d stare at the iron door, and sometimes, I’d see a faint scratch mark on the paint, as if something had dragged its nails across it. My brother said he saw it too, and we’d whisper about it late at night, huddled by the stove. But our parents dismissed it. ‘Old houses make noises,’ they’d say. ‘Don’t let your imagination run wild.’ But then, Sam changed. He started sleepwalking. I’d wake to find him standing by the coal room, his face pale and blank, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. I’d shake him, and he’d blink and look around, confused. This happened three times in a month. The fourth time, I followed him. I crept out of bed and watched him in the dim light. He walked to the coal room, reached out, and touched the door. It opened—not with a creak, but with a smooth, silent glide. I wanted to scream, but I was frozen. He stepped inside, and the door shut behind him. I ran to the door and pulled on the handle. It was locked from the inside. I pounded on it, and then I heard a sound from within: a wet, chewing sound, and my brother’s muffled voice, whispering, ‘Let me in.’ I ran to my parents’ room and shook my father awake. ‘It’s Sam! He’s in the coal room!’ My father sat up, groggy, and followed me. When we got to the door, he pulled it open easily. Inside, the room was empty. Sam was lying on the floor, curled up, asleep. My father carried him back to bed, and in the morning, Sam didn’t remember anything. But he had a faint red mark on his neck, like a burn, and he began to act differently. He would sit by the radio for hours, listening to static. He’d get up at night and stand by the door to the kitchen, staring at the coal room. He’d say, ‘He’s waiting for you.’ I asked who, but he would just smile, his eyes dark.

I told my mother about the nightmares, but she only hugged me and said, ‘Be brave. It’s just a house.’ But I knew it wasn’t the house. It was the coal room. And one night, I woke to find my mother standing over me, her face lit by the stove’s embers, her expression blank. She whispered, ‘Don’t you want to see?’ I shook my head, but she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the coal room. She opened the door, and inside, I saw a man sitting in the corner, his back to us. He was pale, with long black hair, and he was wearing a tattered suit. He was humming a tune I didn’t recognize. My mother knelt down and said, ‘He wants to play with you.’ The man turned, and his face was like a mask, with no mouth, only a wide, gaping blackness. I screamed and ran, but my father caught me in the hallway. ‘It’s okay, son,’ he said, but his grip was like iron. ‘He’s been with us for a long time. He only takes what we give.’ I asked what they gave him. My father looked at me, his eyes empty. ‘Memories. And sometimes, little pieces of soul.’

I ran out of the house, into the snow, and I kept running until I reached the road. I flagged down a truck and rode to town, where I stayed with my aunt. I never went back. Years later, I learned that the house was demolished, but I still dream of it. I see the coal room, and I see that creature sitting in the corner, and I feel a pull, as if it’s calling me back. And sometimes, late at night, I hear my brother’s voice on the phone, but when I answer, all I hear is static, and then a whisper: ‘He’s waiting for you.’