The Keepsake Room

The train from Montreal slid into the station at dusk, and Clara and her husband, Julian, stepped out into the honeyed light of an autumn evening. The town of Ashford, perched on the edge of a vast, dark lake, was smaller than they’d imagined, a cluster of stone buildings and narrow streets that smelled of damp leaves and woodsmoke. They had planned to find a bed and breakfast, but Julian, ever the pragmatist, had grown tired of the search after their third dead end. ‘The old hotel on the square will do,’ he said, pointing to a three-story structure with a faded sign that read ‘The Granite House.’ It was the only place with lights in the windows, and they were hungry and weary.

They pushed through the heavy oak door, and a bell chimed somewhere in the back. The lobby was lit by a single gas lamp that cast long, wavering shadows on the walls. At the desk, a woman stood, seemingly waiting for them. She was dressed in a high-collared black gown, the kind Clara had seen in tintypes from a century past. Her face was pale, and her eyes were the color of lake water, flat and unreadable. ‘Good evening,’ she said, her voice soft, like the rustle of silk. ‘You’ll be wanting a room.’ It wasn’t a question. Clara felt a chill run down her spine, but Julian, oblivious, was already signing the register. ‘Room 14, top floor, end of the hall,’ the woman said, sliding a brass key across the counter. ‘Mind the stairs; they creak.’

Their room was at the end of a narrow corridor, under the eaves. The wallpaper was a faded damask, and the windows looked out over the lake, now a black mirror under a sliver of moon. The bed was high and hard, the quilt stiff with age. But it was clean, and they were exhausted. As Clara unpacked, she noticed a small, framed photograph on the nightstand: a young girl with braided hair, standing in front of the same hotel, but the building looked new. ‘Odd,’ she murmured, but Julian was already snoring. She set the photograph back and climbed into bed, the sheets cold and slightly damp.

Sometime after midnight, Clara woke to a sound. It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a finger on wood. She sat up, her heart pounding. The tapping came from the wall at the head of the bed. It paused, then resumed, three taps, a pause, three taps. She shook Julian’s shoulder. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. But the tapping stopped. Julian grumbled and rolled over. ‘Just the pipes,’ he said. Clara lay awake, listening, and after a while, she heard a faint, childlike giggle from the corridor, then the patter of small feet running away. She didn’t sleep again that night.

The next morning, the woman in black was not at the desk. Instead, a young man in a modern uniform handed them a breakfast tray in a small dining room. He was cheerful, humming a tune. Clara asked about the woman from the night before. ‘Ah, you mean Mrs. Winthrop? She’s been here for years. She’s a bit old-fashioned, but she’s harmless.’ Clara wanted to ask more, but Julian was impatient to see the lake. They spent the day rowing on the water, visiting a nearby lighthouse, and having lunch at a café. By evening, they were relaxed, and Clara had almost forgotten the night’s strangeness.

That night, the tapping returned. This time, it was louder, more insistent, and it came from the door of their room. Clara got up, her bare feet cold on the floorboards. She pressed her ear to the door. A whisper, so faint it might have been the wind: ‘She’s still wearing it.’ Clara opened the door a crack, but the hallway was empty and dark, save for a single flickering light at the far end. She closed the door and locked it, her hands shaking. Julian, awake now, sat up. ‘What is it?’ She told him. He sighed. ‘You’re just tired from all that walking. Let’s get some sleep.’ He turned over, but Clara noticed he kept his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

The third night, they planned to leave in the morning. But Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that something in the room was wrong. She examined the photograph again. The girl in the photo had a similar face to the woman at the desk, but younger. Clara flipped it over. In faded pencil, it read: ‘Margaret, 1887.’ She showed it to Julian. ‘Maybe she’s a relative of the owner?’ he said, unimpressed. Then they heard a sound from inside the wall. A low, mournful humming. It grew louder, and the walls began to vibrate slightly. The lamp on the nightstand flickered and went out. In the darkness, Clara felt a cold breath on her neck, and a voice, old and cracked, whispered: ‘He kept my locket.’

Clara screamed. Julian fumbled for the lamp, and it sputtered back to life. The room was still, but the photograph was gone. In its place was a small, tarnished locket on the nightstand. Clara’s hand trembled as she picked it up. It was engraved with the initials ‘M.W.’ She opened it. Inside was a tiny black-and-white photo of a young man with a mustache, and a lock of hair. ‘It’s her,’ Clara said, her voice shaking. ‘The woman at the desk. She was here in 1887.’ Julian shook his head. ‘That’s impossible. That locket looks like it’s barely a hundred years old.’ But Clara was already at the door. ‘We need to leave. Now.’

They threw their things into their bags and hurried down the creaking stairs. The lobby was dark, but the woman in black stood behind the desk, waiting, her face half in shadow. ‘Checking out so soon?’ she asked, her voice flat. ‘May I have my locket back?’ Clara clutched the locket in her pocket. ‘No,’ she said, surprising herself. ‘You can’t. It’s just an old piece of junk.’ The woman’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, her face seemed to shift, the features melting into a youthful version of herself, then back. ‘That locket,’ she said, ‘holds my soul. He stole it from me. I’ve been waiting for someone to bring it back to me.’ Clara felt a wave of nausea. She pulled the locket out and looked at it. It was warm, pulsating slightly. ‘Who is ‘he’?’ she asked. The woman pointed a long finger at Julian. ‘His ancestor. The owner of this hotel. He took everything from me, including my life. Now, give it back, and you can go.’

But Clara, in a moment of fear and defiance, threw the locket onto the floor and slammed her heel down on it, crushing it. The woman let out an unearthly shriek, and the hotel seemed to groan. Lights flickered wildly, and the floor shook. Clara grabbed Julian’s hand, and they ran out the front door into the cold, dark night. They didn’t stop until they were a mile down the road, breathless and shaking. They didn’t look back.

Later, at a gas station, they called a taxi to take them to the train station. As they waited, Julian looked at Clara. ‘Did you see her face?’ he asked. Clara nodded. ‘It was the girl in the photo. It was always her.’ They boarded the next train east, leaving Ashford and the Granite House behind. But Clara still has the crushed locket in her pocket. She kept it, not sure why. Sometimes, in the quiet of their apartment, she hears a faint humming, and she knows that Margaret Winthrop is not at rest. She wonders if the locket was truly broken, or if she only thought she broke it. And she remembers the last words the woman spoke, just before they fled: ‘You’ll be back. They always come back.’