The Lace and the Humming

When I moved to the coastal town of Port Blossom for graduate school, I found a place that was both charming and unsettling. It was a Victorian house perched on a cliff overlooking the churning sea. The landlady, a frail woman named Mrs. Holloway, warned me about the house’s history, but I was desperate for cheap rent. The house had four rooms: three upstairs and one on the ground floor. I chose the ground floor room, which had a small window facing the garden. My three housemates were all women studying marine biology, and the fourth room was occupied by a quiet nursing student named Clara.

On my first night, I was exhausted from unpacking and fell into a deep sleep. I woke in the middle of the night to a soft humming sound, like a lullaby, coming from beside my bed. I turned my head and saw the faint outline of a little girl in a lacy white dress, leaning on her elbow, her face close to mine. She smiled warmly, her eyes dark and empty, and continued humming. I blinked, and she vanished. My heart pounded, and I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my housemates about the encounter. They exchanged nervous glances, and Clara, the nursing student, finally spoke. ‘You saw her too? I’ve heard her humming in my room, but I’ve never seen her.’ We decided to search the house for clues. In the attic, we found a dusty trunk filled with old photographs and letters. One photograph showed a little girl in a lacy white dress, standing in front of the house. On the back was written: ‘Eleanor, age 7, 1924.’ The letters mentioned a tragedy: Eleanor had drowned in the sea below the cliff, and her mother, a maid, had died of grief soon after.

That night, I woke again to the humming. This time, I was not afraid. I sat up and saw the girl more clearly. She was shy, but she pointed to the window and then to the sea. I followed her gaze and saw a faint light bobbing on the water. She whispered, ‘Help me.’ Then she faded. I realized she wasn’t malevolent; she was trapped, wanting someone to find her remains. My housemates and I decided to search the shoreline. After days of digging, we found a small, rusted locket buried in the sand. Inside was a lock of hair and a note: ‘I’m sorry, Eleanor.’

We held a small memorial and buried the locket in the garden. That night, we heard the humming one last time, but it was soft and fading, like a lullaby drifting out to sea. We never saw her again. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that tune, carried on the ocean breeze, and I remember the little girl who just wanted to be found.