The Gable Room

In the autumn of 1983, I was twenty-two and desperate to leave my parents’ cramped bungalow in the suburbs of Halifax. When my friend Marlene mentioned that she and another friend, Dana, were looking for a third roommate for a charming Victorian house near the harbor, I jumped at the chance. The house was on a quiet street lined with aging elms, its gingerbread trim and wide wraparound porch a stark contrast to the modern apartments nearby. It was perfect: close to my job at the bookstore, and affordable.

Marlene arranged to meet me on the corner of Argyle and Water Street, where the old house stood across from the harbor. I arrived early, and as I waited, I studied the structure. It was three stories tall, with a steeply pitched roof and a round turret that caught the afternoon light. A weathered brass plaque beside the door read ‘Est. 1892.’ The windows on the top floor seemed darker than the rest, as if the glass had been tinted. When Marlene pulled up in her rusted Chevy, she smiled and pointed. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it grand?’

We moved in on a crisp Saturday. The landlord, a wizened old man named Mr. Haversham, handed us the keys with a strange warning: ‘Mind the gable room on the third floor. We keep it locked for a reason.’ We laughed it off, assuming it was a storage space. But as we carried our boxes up the creaking stairs, I noticed the door at the end of the upper hallway. It was painted a deep burgundy, with a brass keyhole that hadn’t been polished in decades. Dana tried the knob, but it was locked. ‘Maybe there’s a secret treasure,’ she joked.

The first week was idyllic. We painted the living room a cheerful yellow, hung thrift store art, and took turns cooking. But soon, small things began to unnerve us. At night, I would wake to the sound of footsteps pacing above my ceiling, slow and deliberate. The house groaned like an old ship, but this was rhythmic, almost human. When I mentioned it at breakfast, Dana confessed she’d heard a faint humming coming from the direction of the gable room. Marlene dismissed it as pipes and wind, but her eyes betrayed her unease.

One evening, Dana decided to pick the lock. She’d always been reckless. With a bobby pin and a butter knife, she managed to pop the old lock open. The door swung inward with a long, low creak. Inside, the room was empty save for a single photograph frame lying face-down on the floor. The floorboards were bare, and the walls had once been wallpapered with faded roses. A large window faced the harbor, but the glass was grimy, casting a dull, watery light. Dana picked up the frame and turned it over. The photo was sepia-toned, showing a woman in a high-necked dress standing next to a man with a heavy mustache. The woman’s face had been scratched out, leaving a rough oval of jagged lines.

Marlene gasped and backed away. ‘Put it back,’ she hissed. But Dana, defiant, placed the frame on the windowsill. ‘It’s just a photo, guys. Relax.’ That night, the footsteps were louder, and this time they seemed to descend the stairs. I heard what sounded like a woman humming a lullaby outside my door. I pulled the covers over my head, heart pounding.

The next morning, we found the photograph frame in the center of the living room, face up, the scratched-out face now replaced by a blurred, shadowy figure that resembled Dana from behind. Dana laughed nervously, but she agreed to return the photo to the gable room. When she opened the door, the room was no longer empty. A rocking chair had appeared, facing the window. The wallpaper seemed darker, and the air was thick with the smell of lavender and rot.

We tried to ignore it, but the presence grew bolder. Objects moved on their own—a cup sliding across the table, a door slamming shut. Marlene swore she saw a woman in a long dress standing at the top of the stairs, watching her with hollow eyes. I began to have vivid dreams of a young woman named Agnes, who had lived in the house in the 1890s. She had been a governess, and the man in the photo was her employer. She had fallen in love with him, but when his wife discovered the affair, she scratched out Agnes’s face in their only portrait. Agnes hanged herself in the gable room.

Desperate, we contacted a local historian. She told us that the house had a dark past. A governess had indeed died there, and her ghost was said to haunt the upper floors, seeking revenge on any woman who reminded her of her betrayer. The historian advised us to burn the photograph and scatter the ashes. That night, we built a small fire in the backyard. Dana held the frame, but as she went to drop it, she went rigid. Her eyes rolled back, and she began to speak in a low, guttural voice: ‘You will not take my only proof of him. He loved me. He loved ME!’

Marlene grabbed the frame and threw it into the flames. As the glass cracked and the paper curled, Dana collapsed. When she came to, she didn’t remember anything. But the house grew quiet. No more footsteps, no more humming. For a week, we felt a fragile peace.

Then, on the last night we were there, I woke to a cold draft. The door to my room was ajar. I crept into the hallway. The gable room door was open, and a faint light glowed from within. I walked to the threshold. In the center of the room, the rocking chair was slowly moving, back and forth. The photograph frame was back on the windowsill, but this time, the picture was of me. I screamed and ran back to my room, packing my bags in a frenzy. Marlene and Dana did the same. We fled the house that night, leaving behind our deposit and most of our belongings.

We never spoke of it again. I moved across the country, but sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that room, the chair rocking, and I hear a woman’s voice, soft and sad, calling my name. I know now that some places remember the pain they’ve witnessed, and they will never let it go. And that gable room, with its scratched-out photographs, will always have a place for me.