A few years ago, while watching over my younger sister, I experienced something that still puzzles me. I had just tucked her into bed and was ready to relax in the living room. Just as I settled down, I heard her wailing from the bedroom.
I hurried back to her room, where she was sitting up, tears streaming down her face. Confused, I asked what was wrong. She spoke of a shadow lurking in the corner of the room. I reassured her, saying it was just her imagination and urged her to rest. I returned to my seat, but soon enough, her cries pierced through the silence once more.
Again, I rushed in, finding her sobbing uncontrollably. Just then, a loud thud came from the closet. I turned to see the door shuddering slightly, as if something inside was trying to get out. The handle twisted erratically before the door cracked open a mere inch. Panic surged through me. I grabbed my sister, enveloping her in my arms, and dashed to the safety of my parents’ room.
I never spoke of that night to anyone; it felt too strange, too unreal. Even if I had wanted to share it, I’m not sure I could have found the words. We eventually moved away, leaving that house and its unsettling memories behind us, but the mystery of that locked room still lingers in my thoughts.