The Guest Bedroom

I was eleven, the summer we moved into the old farmhouse on Tillinghast Lane. The place was a fixer-upper, but my folks were thrilled, especially about the spare room at the top of the stairs. It was just a square, empty space with a single window that faced the east, and they called it the guest bedroom, though we never had guests. That summer, my cousin Matty came to stay for a week, and we slept in that room on an old rollaway cot and a sleeping bag. We had a blast, staying up late, telling stories, and watching the moon through the window.

After Matty left, my mom was too busy to pack up the bedding, so the cot stayed, neatly made with a blue quilt, and my sleeping bag lay rolled at its foot. I loved that room, especially at night. It was my secret hideout, away from the creaks and groans of the old house. I’d drag my comic books and a flashlight in there and read until my eyes burned.

One Monday, about a week after Matty, I decided to sleep on the cot. It was late, around 10:30, and the house was quiet. My parents had gone to bed, and I was alone up there, the window open to the warm summer breeze. My dog, Biscuit, a golden retriever with a brown patch over one eye, lay at my feet, her head resting on my ankle. I was staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks, when I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air. Biscuit lifted her head, ears perked, and let out a low growl. I sat up, my heart thumping. ‘What is it, girl?’ I whispered.

She turned her head toward the open door, then back to me, and I swear she was trying to tell me something. I laughed it off, scratched her ears. ‘Probably a raccoon,’ I said. I lay back down, but I couldn’t sleep. I felt watched. The moonlight cast long shadows across the floor, and the empty walls seemed to press in. I rolled onto my side, facing the window, and Biscuit shifted to face the same direction. That’s when I saw it in her dark, round eye—a reflection, but not of me. Behind me, standing in the doorway, was a figure. It was tall, impossibly thin, with no face, just a black void where a face should be. It had no arms, just long, dangling threads that swayed as if in a breeze, though the air was still.

My blood ran cold. I tried to scream, but my throat sealed. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. The figure stepped forward, its feet silent on the wooden floor, each step a soft, wet slap. Biscuit was now rigid, her growl deepening into a guttural snarl, but she didn’t get off the bed. I ripped my gaze away from the creature and buried my face in the pillow, pulling the blanket over my head. I waited for something to happen, for a cold hand, a whispered word, but nothing came. After what felt like an eternity, I peeked out from under the covers, and the figure was gone. Biscuit was panting, her tail wagging, and the room felt normal again.

I didn’t sleep. I lay awake until dawn, watching the door, but nothing else appeared. The next morning, I told my dad about the shadow, expecting him to laugh it off, but his face went pale. He exchanged a glance with my mom, who was washing dishes and suddenly stopped, her hands frozen in the water. ‘What did it look like?’ my dad asked, his voice tight. I described it, and he just nodded. He told me it was just a dream, a shadow from the trees, but I knew better. After that, he boarded up the window and put a lock on the door, saying the room had ‘structural issues.’ But I saw the fear in his eyes.

I never slept in that room again. Yet, sometimes at night, from my own room down the hall, I’d see a faint light coming from under the locked door, and I’d hear soft footsteps pacing inside. My parents pretended not to notice, but one night, I woke up to my dad standing in my doorway, pale and shaking, asking me if I’d seen ‘the man with the ropes.’ That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me. It was in the house, waiting. And I had a feeling it was waiting for me.

Years later, when I was sixteen, I finally gathered the courage to pry off the boards and unlock the door. The room was exactly as we’d left it—the cot still made, the rolled sleeping bag in the corner, dust thick on everything. But on the wall where the window had been, someone had scratched a message into the plaster: ‘YOU LEFT ME BEHIND.’ I never stepped foot in that house again. But sometimes, when I’m somewhere dark and still, I catch a glimpse of that thin, faceless thing in the corner of my eye, and I know it followed me. It always does.