The Latch on the Second-Floor Door

It was supposed to be a simple visit. My daughter, Lena, and I had flown into Denver to stay with my mother, who lived in a sprawling, old Victorian house perched on a hillside overlooking the city. My stepfather, Harold, was recovering from his second round of chemotherapy, so we were to stay in the upstairs apartment to keep noise down. I was excited; I hadn’t slept in that apartment since I was a teenager. But Lena, now twelve, had a strange reluctance. She’d stayed there once before, two summers ago, and had refused to sleep alone ever since. I chalked it up to childish fears, but her eyes held a depth I didn’t want to acknowledge.

We spent the first day with my brother and his family, arriving at my mother’s just as the sun dipped behind the Rockies. Exhausted, Lena wandered into the backyard to sit on the rusty swing set, watching the fireflies blink in the encroaching dusk. I helped my mother prepare a light supper, and we all retired early. The first night, we slept like the dead, a deep, dreamless sleep that felt too heavy to be natural.

The second day, Lena slept until almost noon, which was peculiar, given we were still on Eastern time. She finally shuffled downstairs, her face pale, and I noticed a small, raw-looking scratch on her forearm. She said she must have gotten it in her sleep. I dismissed it, but a cold thread of unease wove through me.

That night, I woke to a strange sound: a soft, rhythmic tapping, as if someone was knocking from inside the walls. I sat up, my heart hammering, and listened. The sound seemed to come from the hallway. I crept to the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, lit by the faint glow of a nightlight. The tapping stopped. I stood there a long time, straining to hear, but all was silent. I returned to bed, convincing myself it was the old house settling.

But the next morning, Lena was different. She wouldn’t speak to me, just stared at her cereal with a blank expression. When I touched her shoulder, she flinched violently. I saw, on her neck, a series of tiny, circular bruises arranged in a perfect arc, like a bite mark. I asked her about it, but she shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. I tried to get her to tell me what had happened, but she just whispered, ‘The room with the blue curtains.’

I remember that room from my childhood: a small, dusty guest room at the top of the back stairs, its walls a faded robin’s egg blue, curtains that always seemed to move even when the windows were shut. I hadn’t gone in there since I was a girl, but now, a primal dread filled me. I went to my mother, who was in the kitchen shelling peas, and asked about the room. She paused, her hands stilling. ‘Oh, that old room,’ she said. ‘We kept it closed after Granny passed. She used to ask to be in there. Said the view was nice.’ My grandmother had died when I was ten, in that very room, from a sudden aneurysm. I remember the funeral, but not much else. ‘Why do you ask?’ my mother said, her eyes searching mine. I told her about Lena’s state, and the marks. My mother’s face went pale. She set down the peas and clasped her hands. ‘There’s something you should see,’ she said.

She led me up the back stairs, her steps slow and heavy. The door to the blue room was shut, a heavy brass latch holding it closed, something I didn’t remember. ‘We put that latch on after Harold got sick,’ she said, ‘because the door kept swinging open by itself.’ She unlatched it and pushed the door inward. The room was just as I remembered: the blue walls, the white iron bed, the lace curtains, and a faint, musty smell. But there was something else: on the floor beside the bed, there was a deep, dark stain, almost black, that hadn’t been there before. ‘What is that?’ I asked.

My mother looked at me, her expression unreadable. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It appeared a few weeks ago. I tried to clean it, but it won’t come off.’ I moved closer, and as I did, I felt a drop in temperature, a cold that seeped into my bones. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned, but the doorway was empty. Then I heard a sound from the closet: a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a finger on wood. I looked at my mother, and she shook her head slowly. ‘It’s been trying to get out,’ she whispered. ‘But I won’t let it.’

That night, after my mother had gone to her room, I sat with Lena in the living room. She was pale, her eyes wide. She finally spoke, her voice a whisper. ‘The woman in the blue room,’ she said. ‘She came to me last night. She asked me to open the door. She said she needed to see the stars. I told her no, but she touched my arm.’ She rolled up her sleeve to reveal the scratch, now red and inflamed. ‘She wants to trade places, Mama. She said I can go out, and she can come in.’

I went to the blue room that night. I unlatched the door and pushed it open. The room was dark, lit only by the moon through the curtains. I stepped inside, and I could feel her. An ancient presence, dark and patient. I walked to the bed, and I saw an old photograph on the nightstand, of a woman I didn’t recognize. She was young, with dark hair and a sad smile. I took the photo and turned to leave, but the door was closed, the latch firmly in place from the outside. I was locked in.

A cold breath ghosted the back of my neck, and I heard a voice, like dry leaves rustling, ‘You came after all.’ I spun around, but no one was there. The curtains billowed, and the room grew colder. I threw the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. I pounded on the door, screaming, but the world outside seemed deadened. I heard Lena’s voice, muffled, from the other side. ‘Mama, the door is locked. I can’t get in.’ I pressed my ear to the wood, and I could hear her crying. Then I heard the latch click, and the door swung open, and Lena stood there, staring past me, her face blank, a smile curving her lips that was not her own.

We left that morning, driving away from that house without a backward glance, my mother waving from the porch, her eyes glassy and empty. I never let Lena out of my sight. But sometimes, when she sleeps, she mutters in a voice that is not hers, speaking of the stars and a room with blue curtains. And on her forearm, the scratch never heals. It weeps a thin, dark fluid, and sometimes, in the lamplight, it looks like a woman’s face.

Now, as I watch her play in the yard, I realize that the latch on that door was not to keep the thing in. It was to keep us out. And that maybe, just maybe, she got what she wanted. She traded places, and what I brought home from that visit isn’t my daughter anymore. It’s a tourist from a blue room, wearing my child’s skin, waiting for the first opportunity to go home.