The Map on the Hallway Wall

When I was twenty-three, my old neighbor and fishing buddy, Ray, asked me to watch his place for the weekend while he and his wife, Dana, took their girls to a cheerleading competition in the next state. I agreed, mostly because he’d just bought a 75-inch OLED and a surround sound system that made my little apartment feel like a tin can. He handed me the key on Thursday night, and his two daughters, Mia (twelve) and Zoe (nine), were already in the car, waving and grinning. Ray yelled out the window, ‘Don’t let the ghosts get you, Jake!’ and laughed. I laughed too, waving them off as they pulled away down the gravel drive.

Their house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in the outskirts of town, a two-story with a wraparound porch and a big oak tree in the backyard. The dog, a friendly golden retriever named Gus, bounded out to greet me when I arrived Friday morning. I let him out to do his business while I made coffee in the kitchen. The place was spotless, with kids’ drawings on the fridge and a faint cinnamon smell. I settled into the couch, clicked on the TV, and started flipping channels. Gus barked at the door after a few minutes, and I let him back in, filling his water bowl and scratching his ears.

As the morning wore on, I remembered the girls’ little stories about the house being haunted. Once, Mia told me she’d heard footsteps walking up and down the stairs in the middle of the night, even though everyone was asleep. Zoe once claimed she saw a lady in a long dress standing at the end of the hallway. I’d chalked it up to kids’ imaginations, but now, alone in the silent house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The house had an old, musty smell despite the fresh flowers on the mantel. I brushed it off, thinking it was just the age of the place.

By afternoon, I’d gotten used to the creaks and groans, the normal settling of a house. I took Gus for a walk around the block, and when we came back, I settled into the recliner to watch a baseball game. The surround sound made the crack of the bat echo, but it was comforting. As the sun began to dip, I decided to order a pizza. I was punching in the number on my phone when I heard it: a soft, shuffling footstep from upstairs. I paused, phone in hand. Gus, who was curled up at my feet, lifted his head and whined, his ears flat. ‘Probably the HVAC,’ I muttered, but my heart was thumping.

I walked to the base of the stairs, calling out, ‘Hello? Ray? Dana?’ Nothing. The house was still. I took a breath and headed up, checking each room. The master bedroom was clean, the girls’ room was tidy with stuffed animals on the beds, and the guest room was empty. As I turned to go back down, I noticed something on the hallway wall that I hadn’t seen before: a large, framed map of the local county, with a red circle around a spot deep in the woods, maybe three miles from the house. I figured it was a geocaching thing or a hiking trail marker. I shrugged and went back down, convincing myself I was just jumpy from the girls’ stories.

The pizza came, and I ate in front of the TV, Gus at my feet. As the evening wore on, I kept thinking about that map. Why would Ray have a map displayed so prominently in the hallway? And why was that spot circled? I pulled out my phone and texted Ray, asking about it. He replied quickly: ‘Oh, that’s an old survey map. The previous owner left it. Never really looked at it. Why?’ I said, ‘Just curious.’ He sent a winking emoji and said, ‘Don’t go exploring the woods at night, Jake. You might end up on the map.’ I laughed, but a cold chill ran down my spine.

I decided to check the map again before bed. I went upstairs, and there it was, but something was different: the red circle seemed darker, more crimson, as if it were newly drawn. I touched it, and my finger came away with a faint rust-colored stain. I wiped it on my jeans and forced myself to go down. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard faint scraping sounds from the attic, and a periodic tapping on the window facing the backyard. I’d left the lamp on in the living room, and as I lay in the guest bed, I saw the shadow of a figure cast on the wall across the hall. It was slender, like a woman in a long dress, and it didn’t move. I held my breath, and then the shadow just vanished.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke to Gus barking furiously. The clock said 3:13 AM. I stumbled out of bed and found Gus at the front door, his hackles raised. I looked through the peephole and saw nothing but the porch light. But as I turned away, I caught a glimpse of the map in the hallway, now faintly glowing in the dark. The red circle seemed to pulse. I decided then that I had to see what was there. I grabbed a flashlight and my jacket, and against every screaming nerve in my head, I set out into the night, Gus at my side.

The woods were silent, the only sound my footsteps crunching on dry leaves. I found the spot on the map by flashlight, a small clearing with an old, weathered well. The circle was exactly where I stood. As I peered into the well, I heard a woman’s voice whispering from below, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I stumbled back, and then I saw something at the edge of the clearing: a small, rusted locket half-buried in the dirt. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman in a long dress, and on the back, in pencil, was written: ‘Sarah, 1897.’ A cold wind swept through the clearing, and I heard the whisper again, closer now: ‘Leave this place, or join me.’

I ran back to the house, heart pounding. The next morning, I called Ray, telling him I had an emergency and needed to leave. I promised to come back and let Gus out later. But I never did. I’ve never returned to that house. To this day, I still have that locket on my dresser, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a faint whisper. But when I look at the locket, the photo is gone. Instead, there’s a picture of me, standing at the edge of that well, a terrified expression on my face. And in the background, I can just make out a figure in a long dress, reaching for me.