The Hummingbird Room

June had barely begun when we rolled up to the place, and already the air smelled of cut grass and something else, something sweet and wrong, like fruit left too long in the sun. Mom and Dale were all smiles, talking about how the neighborhood was quiet, how the house would be perfect for us. I just stared at the sheer size of it, a white colonial with black shutters, sitting on a street that was lined with similar monsters, each one more imposing than the last. But there was something off about this one, something I couldn’t name, a feeling that crept up my spine as we walked up the stone path to the front door.

My stepsister, Jenna, was already inside, racing up the grand staircase to claim the biggest bedroom. I took my time, running my fingers along the cool wallpaper in the hallway, noticing tiny hummingbirds embroidered in the pattern, their wings frozen mid-flutter. Mom and Dale were busy talking to the realtor, so I wandered into the kitchen, where the afternoon light slanted through the bay window, illuminating dust motes like tiny galaxies. That’s when I heard it, a faint hum, like a refrigerator running, but rising and falling, almost like a voice. I traced it to a door under the stairs, but it was locked. Dale said it was just the old boiler, but the hum followed me to my room.

My room was at the end of the hall, painted a dismal gray with a hint of blue and green, and the closet was hot pink, a jarring contrast that made me laugh. I spent my first week making it mine, hanging fairy lights and posters, arranging my books by color. But no matter what I did, the room felt off balance, like it was watching me. On the third night, I woke to a sound, a soft clicking, coming from the closet. I turned on the lamp, but the clicking stopped. I told myself it was the pipes, but I left the light on.

It was a week later when I found it, a small door at the back of my closet, hidden behind a rack of dresses. It was painted the same color as the wall, and I would have missed it if the paint hadn’t started to peel in one corner, revealing a gold handle. I opened it, and there was a narrow stairway leading up, the walls covered in the same hummingbird wallpaper, but the birds were darker, almost black. The air was cold and still, and it smelled faintly of mothballs and honey. I climbed the stairs, my heart thumping, and found myself in a small attic room, filled with dusty furniture draped in white sheets. In the center, on a writing desk, there was a photograph of a girl about my age, with dark braids and a sad smile. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: ‘Mary, age thirteen, 1957.’ I put the photo back and descended, feeling her eyes on me.

That night, I had a dream. I was in the attic room, and Mary was there, but she was alive, and she was pleading with me. ‘Don’t let them take the feeder,’ she said. ‘They’ll take the feeder, and then they’ll come for you.’ I woke gasping, the dream fading, but the words lingered. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what.

The next day, I mentioned Mary to Mom, but she just laughed. ‘There’s no Mary, honey. This house was built in 2005. It’s new.’ I wanted to argue, but I had the photo in my pocket, and when I showed her, her face went pale. ‘Where did you find this?’ she demanded. I told her about the attic, and she and Dale made a big deal about ‘settling an old house’, but they boarded up the attic door, sealing it with nails. ‘No more exploring,’ Dale said, but his eyes were darting around, like he was scared of something.

That night, the humming was louder. It was coming from the vent in my room. I pressed my ear to the grate, and I heard a faint voice, thin and reedy, like the sound of a wind through a crack. ‘The feeder is in the garden,’ it said. ‘They’re coming.’ I ran to the window, and in the moonlight, I saw a shadow move across the lawn, but it wasn’t human. It was long and dark, like a column of smoke, and it hovered near the small pool, as if drinking.

I knew I had to act. I found a flashlight and climbed out of my window, down the trellis, to the overgrown rose garden that bordered the backyard. The humming grew louder, and I saw it, a hummingbird feeder hanging from a low branch of a weeping willow, but it wasn’t filled with sugar water. It was filled with a dark, viscous liquid, and the birds that came to it were black as night, not hummingbirds, but something else, with too many wings and eyes that glowed. I grabbed the feeder, meaning to empty it, but as my fingers touched the glass, a cold hand closed over mine. I spun around, and Mary was there, her face inches from mine, her eyes hollow. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘If you break it, they’ll need a new vessel.’ I tried to pull away, but her grip was unbreakable, and I felt something pressing at the edges of my mind, trying to get in.

A sound came from the house, a crash, and then a scream, my mom’s voice. Mary’s face flickered, and she let go. ‘Run,’ she said, and she was gone. I ran back inside, the feeder still clutched in my hand, and found Mom and Dale in the living room, staring at the wall, where a dark stain was spreading from the vent, forming the shape of a girl, her arms outstretched. Dale grabbed a knife, but Mom just stared, her mouth moving, whispering. ‘She wants to be whole,’ she said. ‘She wants to be whole.’ I knew then that the feeder was the key. I ran to the kitchen, found a hammer, and smashed it on the floor. The glass shattered, and the liquid spilled, but it didn’t spread like water, it crawled, inky rivulets that reached for me.

I backed away, but the stain from the wall was growing, and I saw Mary’s face forming in the dark, but it was twisted, not sad anymore, but angry. ‘You fool,’ she hissed. ‘Now they will take you.’ The lights flickered, and the humming grew into a deafening roar, and I saw them, the shadow creatures, pouring out of every vent, every crack, and they were converging on me. In that final moment, I thought of the attic, of the boarded door, and I ran, up the stairs, my feet pounding on the wood, while behind me, the shadows surged.

I reached the attic, but the boards were still intact. I pulled at them with all my strength, and they gave way, revealing the room, but it was changed. The sheets were gone, the desk was bare, and in the center stood Mary, but she was whole, and she was smiling. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for releasing me.’ And then she pointed behind me. I turned, and the shadows had stopped at the threshold, as if they couldn’t enter. ‘They feed on the feeder,’ she said. ‘Now that it’s gone, they’ll fade, but they’ll return. They always return, to the ones who are open. You have to keep them at bay, or they’ll find you again.’

She faded, and I was left alone in the attic, the room suddenly bright with the dawn. I looked down at my hands, and there was a mark, a small hummingbird, burned into my palm. I knew then that this was just the beginning, that the house had chosen me, and those shadows would be back, waiting for the feeder to be remade. I buried the fragments in the garden, under the willow, and I’ve never spoken a word about it since. But at night, I still hear the humming, and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see the shadow thing, waiting. And I know that the cycle has begun again, and I will be the one to keep it going, until the day I die and someone else finds the feeder, and the hummingbird room calls them home.