The Locked Room in Baguio

It was the summer before my final year of high school, and my family and I had decided to spend our vacation in the cool, pine-scented air of Baguio City. My grandmother had a small cottage there, but it was undergoing repairs, so we stayed at my aunt’s abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Auntie Liza and her family had moved to Sydney years ago, leaving the house to gather dust and secrets.

I remember the first time I stepped inside that house. It was a two-story structure with a moss-covered roof and windows that seemed to stare back at you. The air inside was stale and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mothballs and old wood. There was always this feeling, like someone was watching me from the shadows, but I brushed it off as nerves from being in a strange place.

One afternoon, as the sun cast long, dappled shadows through the blinds, my mother asked me to sweep the master bedroom upstairs, where we had set up our sleeping bags. The room was large, with a four-poster bed that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The floorboards creaked under my weight as I entered.

I closed the heavy oak door behind me, turning the rusty key in the lock. It was a habit, I suppose, to have some privacy in a house that felt so exposed. As I swept the dusty floor, the bristles scratching against the wood, I heard it—a slow, agonizing creak, like metal scraping bone. I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs. The door was slowly opening, as if someone or something had turned the handle and pushed it inward.

My breath caught in my throat. I felt a cold draft snake across my skin. I wanted to run, but my legs were rooted to the spot. The door was now fully open, revealing an empty hallway. I forced myself to move, to take a step forward, and peered out. There was no one there. But the feeling of being watched intensified, a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

The door wouldn’t stay shut after that. Every time I closed it, it would swing open again, slowly, deliberately. I tried locking it, but the lock was too old, and the key would only turn halfway. My hands were shaking as I finished sweeping, my mind racing with the stories my grandmother used to tell about the house—tales of a previous owner who had never left.

When I finally fled the room, I stumbled down the stairs, my mother calling out from the kitchen. I didn’t tell her what happened. But that night, as I lay in my sleeping bag on the floor, I couldn’t shake the image of that door opening on its own. I could still hear the creak in my ears, a sound that seemed to echo through the house.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a sudden chill. The moonlight cast eerie patterns on the wall. I realized, with a sinking dread, that the master bedroom door was ajar, even though I had closed it before going to sleep. I tiptoed to the door, my heart hammering, and peered through the gap. The room was empty, but there, on the floor, was a trail of dust—not from the sweeping I had done, but from something moving, as if someone had dragged a heavy object across the floor.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. And the next morning, when I told my mother, she dismissed it as old house noises and drafts. But I knew better. I knew that the door wouldn’t stay shut, and that something in that room was not at peace.

I couldn’t help but return to that master bedroom every day, compelled by a curiosity I couldn’t explain. Each time, the door would open on its own as soon as I approached, as if inviting me in. I would enter, sweep the floor, and leave, always with the feeling of being observed. On the last day of our stay, as I was about to leave, I glanced at the mirror above the dresser. In the reflection, I saw a woman, gaunt and pale, standing behind me. I spun around, but there was no one. When I turned back to the mirror, she was gone—but the door was wide open, as if waiting for me.

We left Baguio the next day, and I never spoke of it again. But sometimes, late at night, I’ll hear a creak in my own hallway, and I’ll think of that door in Baguio, swinging open to reveal the void beyond. And I can’t help but wonder if she’s still there, watching, waiting for someone to finally stay.