The Figure on the Bare Mattress

My name is Ellen, and I’m about to tell you something that happened to me and my partner, Tom, when we rented a two-story house on the outskirts of a small town called Rookwood. The house had been vacant for years, and the landlord was desperate to get anyone in. The price was too good to pass up, so we took it, even though the place had a heavy, dusty feel to it.

We moved in late October, just as the leaves were turning and the days were getting shorter. The downstairs had a living room, a kitchen, a dining area, and a small half-bath. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a full bathroom. Tom took a liking to the smaller bedroom for his office, and I had the larger one for our bedroom. We spent the first week cleaning and painting, trying to make it ours. But there was one door upstairs that we couldn’t open – the closet door in the hallway. It was stuck, as if the wood had swollen over time. We didn’t give it much thought.

One evening, after a long day of unpacking, Tom decided to take a bath. He’s one of those guys who never remembers to bring a towel, and sure enough, after about twenty minutes, I heard his muffled voice from upstairs: ‘Ellen, can you bring me a towel? Forgot mine again.’ I rolled my eyes, grabbed a clean towel from the linen closet, and headed up the stairs.

The hallway upstairs was dim, lit only by a small bulb that flickered occasionally. As I reached the landing, I saw that the bathroom door was slightly ajar, but I could hear the water running. I knocked and said, ‘Tom, unlock the door.’ He called back, ‘Just a sec, I’m getting out!’ So I stepped back to wait, and my eyes drifted to the bedroom across from the bathroom – the one we were using as storage. The door was open, and the room was dark except for a faint sliver of light from the streetlight outside filtering through the blinds.

At first, I didn’t notice anything unusual. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw a shape on the bed. It was hunched over, like a lump of clothes. I squinted, thinking it was a pile of laundry I’d left there. But then the shape moved slightly, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I remember thinking, ‘It’s just a trick of the light, Ellen.’ But something made me take a step closer. I pushed the door wider and peered into the darkness.

That’s when I saw clearly: a young boy was sitting on the bed. He was wearing old-fashioned clothes – a white shirt and dark trousers, like something from a vintage photograph. His hair was neat, and his hands were folded in his lap. But his face – his face was blank, like a doll’s, with no expression. And he was staring right at me.

My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I took a step back, and my foot hit the wall. The boy tilted his head slightly, as if curious. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he said, ‘You shouldn’t be in this room. This is my room.’

I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I managed to stammer, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.’ The boy didn’t respond; he just kept staring, unblinking. Then he slowly raised his hand and pointed to the closet door – the same closet door that was stuck. He said, ‘Open it. He wants out.’

I backed away, my heart pounding. I fled down the stairs and ran into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter, gasping. Tom found me a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, looking concerned. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I told him what I saw, but he laughed it off. ‘It’s just an old house, Ellen. Your imagination is playing tricks on you.’

But I knew what I saw. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the boy and his cryptic words. I decided to investigate the closet door. The next morning, with the sunlight streaming through the windows, I approached it. This time, the door gave way easily. Inside, I found a small, dusty room, barely big enough to walk into. There was a single chair in the center, and on the floor, a child’s toy – a wooden train. On the wall, written in faded crayon, were the words: ‘I see you.’

I haven’t gone back upstairs since. Tom still doesn’t believe me, but I know that boy is still sitting there on the bed, waiting. And every night, I hear a faint scratching from the closet, as if something is trying to get out.

I don’t know who that boy was, but I do know one thing: we’re not alone in this house. And whatever he is, he’s not happy we’re here. I just hope we can figure out how to leave before he decides to make us stay.