The Grief in Room Four

The last thing I expected when my mom asked me to house-sit was a ghost. But there I was, alone in her sprawling Victorian rental in a sleepy Oregon town, watching the television in the den. The old TV crackled with static when I switched channels, and an icy, prickling sensation crawled up my scalp, lifting my hair like a balloon rub. I laughed nervously, running my fingers through it, assuming it was just static discharge. But the air felt wrong—heavy, like a held breath.

I went to the bathroom to smooth down my hair, splashing cold water on my face. As I patted my head dry, I heard soft footsteps padding across the hardwood floor outside. I froze, my heart thumping. My mom had gone into town for lunch; she couldn’t be back already. I called out, ‘Mom?’ No answer. The footsteps continued, slow and deliberate, as if the walker was lost.

I stepped out into the hallway. The sound came from the living room, so I tiptoed forward and peered around the corner. What I saw made my blood turn to ice. An old woman was pacing the carpet, her floral nightgown drifting around her ankles. Her gray hair was thin and snarled, and her lips moved in a low, mournful mumble, words I couldn’t quite catch. She seemed to be searching for something, her hands extended, trembling.

She turned her head, and her sunken eyes met mine. Instead of fear, she looked horrified—as if I were the intruder. She clutched her chest and wailed, ‘I’m so sorry! So sorry, I didn’t mean to…’ Then she burst into tears and ran, her bare feet slapping the floor, disappearing into the shadows of the study. I ran after her, heart pounding, but the room was empty. Yet I could still hear sobbing, faint and wavering, coming from behind the bookshelves.

I called my mom, my voice shaking. She didn’t sound surprised. ‘That’s just the old woman,’ she said calmly. ‘She lived in this house before we did. Her name was Margaret. She lost her daughter to an overdose in this very room, and she couldn’t forgive herself. They say she still walks around, looking for her, crying. I thought you might meet her. Just let her be. She’ll tire herself out.’

But I couldn’t shake it. That night, as I tried to sleep in my mother’s guest bedroom, I heard faint sobs through the wall. And then, a creak on the stairs. I pulled the blanket over my head, praying she’d leave me alone. But the sobs grew closer, and a cold, bony hand pressed through the blanket, stroking my arm. Margaret’s voice whispered, ‘She was only twenty-four. The pills were mine. I should have hidden them better. Can you forgive me?’ I screamed. I leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, out the front door, and sat on the porch shivering until dawn.

When my mom returned that evening, she found me huddled by the front steps. She hugged me and said, ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should have told you about the grieving mother. She doesn’t mean any harm. But if it’s too much, you can go stay at your aunt’s.’ I took that offer. I’ve never gone back. And to this day, I still receive letters from my mom, forwarded, all stamped with the same brown, water-stained envelopes. Inside each one, she writes: ‘Margaret says thank you for listening. She’s at peace now.’ But I know that’s a lie. Because every night, when I close my eyes, I still hear her crying in room four.