The Latch and the Lock

When I was eight, my mother, my two brothers, and I moved into the old Harborside Inn, a rambling guesthouse perched on a cliff above a gray, restless sea. My brothers took the room at the end of the hall, and I got the one next to the stairs, a narrow room with a window that rattled in its frame even on still days. Downstairs was the bar, a cavernous space with a massive stone fireplace that always smelled of damp soot, and below that, a cellar that no one ever used. The door to it was bolted, and the key hung on a nail in the kitchen, rusted and forgotten. Two doors from my room was the ‘Lobster Room,’ so named for the faded painting of a lobster on its door. Inside, there was a crib, an old wooden thing with peeling paint and a mattress that sagged in the middle. I never liked that room. The hallway leading to it always felt colder, and the air had a faint smell, like old milk and dust.

One afternoon, my brother, Jake, was cleaning my room as a trade for a pizza I’d promised to make him. I was in the kitchen, grating cheese, when I heard a crash from upstairs, followed by a thud of running feet. Jake came tearing down the stairs, his face white as the flour I’d spilled. He was crying, and I could barely understand him. ‘The book,’ he stammered. ‘It just… it flew off the shelf and slammed on the floor right in front of me.’ I laughed, said something about a draft, but Jake shook his head, his eyes wide. ‘It wasn’t a draft. It was like someone threw it.’ He refused to go back up, so I finished cleaning my room myself. I didn’t notice anything odd then, but that night, I would.

That night, I turned off the light and lay in bed, watching the pale square of window. The sea was quiet, but the window began to rattle, a frantic, insistent shaking, as if something outside were pounding on the glass. I pulled the covers up to my chin, my heart starting to pound. Then I heard it: a low, rhythmic dragging sound from the ceiling, like chains being pulled across the attic floor. It went on and on, a slow, heavy scrape that seemed to move back and forth above my room. I listened for what felt like hours, my whole body rigid. The dragging stopped, only to be replaced by a creaking sound, as if something heavy were swinging from the rafters, and then a series of sharp taps on my window, one after another, like fingernails. The air in the room grew cold, and I felt a presence, a weight pressing down on the mattress at the foot of my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered the only prayer I knew, over and over, until exhaustion took me.

The next morning, I told my mother. She said it was just the old house settling, the wind off the sea. But I knew better. I started to feel a dread in certain places: the Lobster Room, the bathroom at the end of the hall, the top of the cellar stairs. I would avoid them, but I couldn’t always. Whenever I had to pass the Lobster Room, I’d feel a chill, and a sense that something was watching me from inside, and sometimes I’d hear the sound of the crib creaking, as if rocking by itself. I told my mother, but she dismissed it. ‘Your imagination,’ she said. ‘You’ve been reading too many ghost stories.’ But I hadn’t been reading ghost stories. I had been listening.

One afternoon, I came home from school alone. My mother was at the market, and my brothers were at a friend’s house. The inn was silent, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the bar. I went to my room to drop my bag, and as I passed the Lobster Room, the door was ajar. It had been closed that morning. I pushed it open, my heart thudding. The room was dim, the curtains half-drawn. The crib was in the corner, and it was rocking, gently, back and forth, as if a ghostly hand were on it. I froze. Then I heard a voice, a child’s voice, whisper, ‘Don’t leave me.’ I backed away, stumbled into the hallway, and ran downstairs. I didn’t stop shaking for hours.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening for the dragging chains. They came, as they always did, but this time, they were louder, closer, as if whatever was dragging them was in the attic directly above me. Then I heard the cellar door creak open, and the sound of footsteps, slow and heavy, climbing the stairs from the cellar to the bar. I heard the bar door open, then footsteps in the hallway, coming up the stairs. They passed my door, and stopped. I heard a cry, muffled, like a child’s sob. Then the sound of the crib in the Lobster Room, rocking faster, faster, and the voice again, begging. ‘Please, don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.’

I pulled the covers over my head, shaking, and prayed for morning. When light finally came, I crept out. The house was still. I went to the Lobster Room, my legs trembling. The door was closed. I opened it. The crib was still. I walked to it, looked inside. There, in the corner of the crib, was a small, rusty key. It was the key to the cellar door. I picked it up. The metal was cold, and I felt a jolt, as if a current ran through me. I took the key to the cellar door, and with trembling hands, I unlocked it. The door swung open, revealing a pitch-black void. From the depths, I heard the faint, rhythmic dragging of chains, and a child’s voice, whispering, ‘You came. Thank you.’ I stepped back, slammed the door, and ran out of the house. I never went back. We moved out a month later. But to this day, I still hear that voice, and I still see that key, and I know that somewhere, in that cellar, something waits for the latch to be undone.