The Fourth Bedroom

The house on Maple Street was a rebuke to the gloomy apartment blocks that surrounded it. It was a Victorian relic, all gingerbread trim and bay windows, and my parents bought it with the sort of desperate optimism that only people who’ve never owned a house can feel. I was fourteen, and I hated it. The floorboards groaned even when you weren’t walking, and the doors all stuck like they were holding their breath. My room was at the end of a long hallway, and on the first night, I lay awake listening to the radiators clank and hiss, feeling like the house was settling its bones around me.

It started small. A clock that ticked three times for every second. A bathroom scale that read ten pounds heavier when I stepped on it, then back to normal when I got off. I told myself it was just an old house, and maybe a bit of my father’s paranoia had rubbed off on me. But then I started hearing her. A little girl, singing. Not a tune I knew, but a simple lullaby, something my mother used to hum when I was sick. I’d be in my room, doing homework, and I’d hear it coming from the end of the hall, from the room we never used. The third bedroom, we called it, though there were only three. My parents said it was for guests, but we never had any.

I didn’t tell them at first. I thought I was dreaming, or that it was a neighbor’s TV. But the song got clearer, and I could make out words: “Hush little baby, don’t you cry…” And then, footsteps. A child’s running footsteps, padding down the hall, stopping at my door, then running back. It would do that for hours, back and forth, until I’d finally fall asleep from exhaustion. At night, I’d wake to find my door open, even though I always closed it. And I’d see a shadow in the hallway, a small, slight shadow, just waiting.

My parents thought I was having nightmares. They bought me a nightlight. They told me not to be such a scaredy-cat. But the shadow grew bolder. It would stand in the doorway, watching me. I could feel its eyes on me, a cold, patient gaze. I started sleeping with my lamp on, my back pressed against the wall, staring at the doorway. Then, one night, I woke to see the shadow at the foot of my bed. I screamed, and my mother ran in, but there was nothing there. She found me drenched in sweat, pointing at the empty space. She held me, rocked me, and said, “It’s just a dream, sweetie. Just a dream.” But I knew it wasn’t.

I began to investigate. My father’s old camera, a dusty Polaroid from the 70s, still worked. I took a picture of the hallway at midnight. When the photo developed, there was a white blur in the shape of a small child. I took another, and it was gone. I started recording with my phone, leaving it on my nightstand, and in the morning, I’d have hours of static. I listened closely, and under the hiss, I could hear the lullaby.

I asked my parents about the house. They laughed it off, but my mother’s eyes flickered to a family portrait hanging in the living room. My father’s family, from a time before I was born. There was a little girl in the picture, standing next to my father. She had pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. I asked who she was, and my mother said it was my aunt, who died before I was born. She said it quickly, changing the subject.

One night, I decided to follow the sound. It was coming from the third bedroom, the one we never used. The door was always closed, but I pushed it open. Inside, it was dusty and full of boxes. But there was a bed, an old iron bed, and on the pillow, there was an indentation, like someone had just been lying there. I felt a cold draft, and I heard the lullaby from under the bed. I knelt down and looked. There was nothing there but shadows. But then I saw a small hand reach out, and it pointed at the closet.

I opened the closet. There were clothes, old clothes, from the 1950s. And among them, hanging on a hook, was a child’s dress. Yellow, with lace trim. And on the floor, a pair of small, scuffed shoes. I picked up the dress. It was still warm. I brought it to my mother, and she went pale. She grabbed it from me and threw it in the fireplace. But as it burned, I heard a scream, not from the fire, but from the hallway. I ran to the hallway, and the little girl was there, not a shadow, but a solid, translucent figure. She was pointing at me, and her mouth was open in a silent cry.

My mother came out, and she saw her too. She froze. The girl vanished, and my mother fell to her knees. She confessed everything. The girl was my father’s sister, who had died in this house. She was sick, and my grandparents had kept her locked in that bedroom, because they were ashamed. She had died alone, in the night, and they had buried her in the backyard and never spoken of her again. My mother had known, but she thought it was just a story. She thought the house was safe.

But it wasn’t. The girl was still there. And now she had a playmate. Me. I started to see her more and more. She would sit in the corner of my room, humming. She would play with my toys, moving them around. She would sleep at the foot of my bed, a cold weight pressing down. My parents didn’t know what to do. They tried to move, but we couldn’t sell the house. The realtor said it had a bad reputation. We were stuck.

I started to lose track of time. The days blurred together. I would wake up in the middle of the night in the third bedroom, standing by the closet, not remembering how I got there. I would find bruises on my arms, in the shape of small fingers. My reflection in the mirror would be a beat behind, or a beat ahead. I would see her out of the corner of my eye, always just a glimpse, always smiling.

One night, I woke up in the hallway. The house was silent. The lullaby was gone. I felt a strange calm. I walked to the third bedroom. The door was open. Inside, the bed was made, the closet was closed. On the bed, there was a photograph. It was me, but older, with hollow eyes and a vacant stare. Behind me, in the photo, was the little girl, her hands on my shoulders, her chin resting on my head. I don’t know when it was taken.

I heard a giggle. I turned. The little girl was standing in the doorway, wearing the same yellow dress, but it was fresh and clean. She held out her hand. I felt a pull, a need to take it. I reached out. As my fingers brushed hers, a flood of memories washed over me. I saw my life, but not mine. I saw a childhood in this house, a sick girl locked in a room, a desperate need for companionship. And I saw the moment she died, and the moment she waited, and the moment I appeared.

When I came to, I was lying on the floor of the third bedroom. The photograph was gone. But on my wrist, there was a small, red mark, like a bracelet. And the lullaby had stopped. The house was quiet. I got up and went to the mirror in the hallway. My reflection was normal. I felt a strange sense of relief. I went to my parents’ room, but they looked at me with horror. And I realized why. When I spoke, my voice was a child’s voice, a little girl’s voice. I turned to the mirror again, and I saw her face, not mine, superimposed over my own. And in the reflection, I saw her smile, and she pointed at me.

Now, I remember everything. The house, the girl, the endless waiting. And I know that this body is not mine. But I’m not the one who took it. I’m the one who was taken. And somewhere, in the depths of the house, a new victim is starting to hear the lullaby.