The Coatroom in the Attic

I had spent my childhood in the shadow of the Meridian House, a sprawling, eccentric mansion that twisted and turned upon itself like a fever dream. My grandmother had worked there as a guide in the 1950s, and she used to tell me stories about its impossible staircases and doors that opened onto blank walls. By the time I was old enough to wander the halls on my own, I had memorized every corridor, every hidden nook, every draft that whispered through the cracks. But there was one place that always unsettled me: the attic. Not the grand, open attic with its dust motes and forgotten trunks, but a cramped, narrow passage that ran behind the old servant quarters, a corridor lined with coatrooms and storage cupboards, leading to a single, large room with a low ceiling and a floor riddled with skylights. The room was always cold, even in the height of summer, and the light that filtered through those grimy panes was pale and sickly.

It was the summer of 1973, and I had taken a summer job as a junior guide, still too young to lead tours but old enough to shadow the senior staff. My favorite guide was a man named Harold, a wiry old veteran who had seen things in that house that he never fully explained. One afternoon, he took our small group of tourists up the narrow, winding stairs to that attic room. The tour was supposed to be quick, just a peek through the door and then down another hidden staircase, but Harold paused, holding a finger to his lips. He was listening.

I heard it too: a faint rustling, like fabric brushing against old wood, coming from the room ahead. Harold frowned and motioned for us to wait. Through the open doorway, I could see another group of visitors, standing in a loose cluster, their backs to us. They were oddly still, as if they were waiting for something. I nudged the man next to me, a portly tourist from Ohio, and pointed. He squinted, then shrugged. Harold looked uneasy. He stepped forward, clearing his throat, and said, ‘Pardon me, but this is a private tour. I’m afraid you’ll have to move along.’

The figures didn’t turn. One of them, a woman in a long, old-fashioned dress, tilted her head slightly, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Harold’s face went pale. He reached out and touched the shoulder of the nearest figure. That was when I noticed something wrong. The touch didn’t seem to connect properly; Harold’s hand passed through as if they were made of smoke, but they were solid enough to see. The figure slowly turned, and I saw that its face was blank, featureless, a smooth expanse of pale skin. I gasped. The tourist next to me muttered something about a prank, but his voice was shaky.

Harold withdrew his hand quickly, backing away. He turned to us and whispered urgently, ‘Stay together. We’re leaving. Now.’ But as we tried to retreat, the corridor behind us was blocked by a row of coat racks that hadn’t been there a moment before, their wooden hangers clacking together softly. The air grew colder, and the light from the skylights dimmed, casting the room in a grey twilight.

I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked down, and there was a small, childlike hand gripping the fabric, but when I looked for its owner, I saw only a shadow in the corner of my eye that vanished when I turned. The figures in the room began to move, not walking, but gliding, their feet hidden under long skirts and trousers. They formed a circle around us, and I could hear a low humming sound, like a lullaby sung in a language I didn’t recognize.

The portly tourist broke free and lunged for the door, but it slammed shut before he could reach it. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Harold was shouting, but his voice seemed muffled, as if the air itself was thick. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I spun, but there was nothing there. The humming grew louder, and I saw that the skylights in the floor began to glow with an eerie, blue light, illuminating dust motes that drifted upward in reverse, defying gravity.

I closed my eyes, pressing my hands over my ears, and when I opened them, the room was empty. The figures were gone, the coat racks were gone, and Harold was standing by the door, his face ashen. The portly tourist was on his knees, hyperventilating. Harold said, in a voice that cracked, ‘That’s why we never bring groups up here. That room is a magnet for… for them. The ones who are still here.’

We stumbled down the stairs, out into the bright California sunshine. I never went back to that attic room again. But even now, decades later, I sometimes feel a cold draft on the back of my neck, and I hear that faint humming, as if the house is still singing its silent song, waiting for the next unwary visitor to climb the stairs and turn right into that corridor of coatrooms, where the space between worlds is thin as a shadow.

I still dream of that room, the grey walls, the skylights in the floor, and the figures that stand in the twilight, their faces blank, their hands reaching out to welcome me home.