The Crossing Room

The moment I stepped through the front door of the farmhouse, I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t the peeling paint or the way the floorboards groaned under my boots, or even the smell of damp hay that clung to every surface. It was the silence. Not a peaceful quiet, but a thick, watchful stillness, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. My aunt, Ruth, and Uncle Bert had rented this place for a month, and they were already inside, arguing about which room would be theirs. I was supposed to share the smallest bedroom with my cousin Meg, but when I saw that room, I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. It was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, separated from the rest of the house by a heavy wooden door that didn’t quite fit its frame. The room had two single beds, one pushed against the wall with a window that looked out over a field of dead sunflowers, the other near the door, with a closet that had no handle. I volunteered to take the one by the door, thinking it was closer to the exit, but I soon regretted it.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind rattled the glass, and from somewhere in the house, I heard a rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood. I told myself it was a tree branch, but the nearest tree was fifty feet away. Around 2 a.m., I finally drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sensation of being watched. The room was dark, but a sliver of moonlight from the window fell across the floor, and in that pale light, I saw a figure standing between the beds. It was small, like a child, but its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, and its arms hung too low. I thought it was Meg, sleepwalking. ‘Meg?’ I whispered. The figure didn’t move. I reached over and shook Meg’s shoulder, but she was already stirring, mumbling, ‘What?’ I froze. Meg was in bed. The figure was still there, but now it seemed to be leaning closer, and I could see that its face was blank, smooth, like a mannequin’s.

My heart pounded so loud I thought it would wake the dead. I wanted to scream, but my throat was tight. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, and when I opened them, the figure was gone. But on the wall, where its shadow had been, there was a dark stain, like old water damage, in the shape of a tall, narrow door. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told Ruth and Bert about what I saw, but they laughed it off. Bert said, ‘It’s just your imagination, kid. These old places play tricks on you.’ Meg looked at me with wide eyes but said nothing. I noticed the stain on the wall was still there, but it looked less like a door now and more like a smudge. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was trying to tell me something. That afternoon, while everyone was out exploring the property, I searched the room. I ran my hands over the wall where the stain was, and my fingers found a seam, almost invisible, that ran from the floor to the ceiling. I pressed, and a section of the wall popped open, revealing a dark, narrow space. Inside, I found a child’s shoe, a faded photograph, and a diary. The diary belonged to a girl named Rose, who had lived in this farmhouse in the 1950s. Her entries were mostly mundane, but the last one was different. It read: ‘They forgot me. They left me in the crossing room. I can see the light from under the door, but I can’t reach it. I hear them calling, but they can’t hear me. I am so cold.’

That night, I couldn’t ignore it. I crept back into the room and shone a flashlight into the hidden space. It was a tiny room, no bigger than a closet, with a dirt floor and a small wooden cot. There were scratch marks on the walls, deep grooves, as if someone had tried to claw their way out. A cold draft blew from a crack in the corner, and I heard a faint, high-pitched whimper. I spun around, and there she was, the same figure from the first night, but now she was clearer, a little girl in a tattered nightgown, her face pale and gaunt. She looked at me with hollow eyes and said, ‘You can see me.’ Her voice was like dry leaves. I stumbled back, but she moved closer, and I felt an icy hand close around my wrist. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting so long. They forgot me. You have to open the door.’

I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Her grip was too strong, and her eyes held mine, pleading and desperate. I realized then that the ‘door’ she meant wasn’t the hidden room’s entrance, but the door to the house itself. She wanted to leave, to escape the farmhouse that had trapped her spirit for decades. But I also realized that if I let her out, she might not be just a lost soul; she might be something else, something hungry. I pulled back, and she screamed, a sound that tore through the house and made the walls shake. The lights flickered, and from the hallway, I heard footsteps. Ruth and Bert burst in, and they saw the hidden room, and the look of terror on their faces told me they understood too. But it was too late. The girl had vanished, and the closet door had swung shut, sealing the room behind it. The next day, we packed up and left, but I can still feel her cold hand on my wrist, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that dark room with the tiny cot, and I hear her whisper: ‘They forgot me.’ I never found out what happened to Rose, but I know she’s still there, waiting for someone to open the door.