The Nightgown on the Bottom Bunk

I was eleven when my grandfather moved in after his heart surgery. The doctors said he needed a quiet place to recover, so my parents turned our living room into a makeshift bedroom. That meant I had to give up my room, the one with the window that overlooked the backyard. I didn’t mind, not really. My grandfather smelled of peppermint and old books, and he’d tell me stories about the war if I sat with him long enough. But sharing a room with my older brother, Derek, was another story. He was sixteen and thought he was king of the castle. He claimed the top bunk, of course, leaving me the bottom. I remember the first night, staring at the wooden slats above me, listening to his breathing even out, and feeling a strange sense of being trapped.

Our house was a creaky Victorian on the edge of town, and my room had always been my sanctuary. Now it felt foreign, the walls closing in. Derek’s posters of bands and cars covered the wallpaper, and his dirty socks piled in the corner. I’d fall asleep to the hum of the radiator and the occasional hoot of an owl from the oak tree outside. The nights were long, and I’d often wake in the small hours, not from any sound, but as if something pulled me from sleep. On the third week, it happened differently. I woke with a start, my breath caught in my throat. The room was bathed in a cold, silver-blue light from the moon filtering through the blinds. I turned my head, and there, at the foot of my bed, stood a thin, white mist. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, a reflection from the glass. But the mist began to coalesce, taking a shape. It became a small figure, a girl, no older than four, wearing a long, old-fashioned nightgown that reached her bare feet. She had a lace nightcap on her head, and her curly hair escaped from it. Her face was pale, and her eyes were dark, like deep wells. She just stood there, motionless, staring at me.

I froze. I wanted to call out to Derek, but my voice was a whisper. The girl didn’t speak, but I felt a cold seep into my bones, as if the presence was a window to a winter night. She raised a small, translucent hand and pointed at the floor beneath my bunk. I followed her gaze, but saw only the scuffed wooden boards. When I looked back, she was gone. The mist had vanished. I lay there, my heart thudding, until dawn crept in. I convinced myself it was a dream, a side effect of sleeping in a new place. But the next night, she returned. This time, she stood closer, near my pillow. I could see the details of her gown, the tiny pearl buttons, the hem frayed with age. She mouthed something, but I couldn’t understand. Her lips moved slowly, forming words I couldn’t hear. I shook Derek, but he just grumbled and turned over. When I looked again, she was gone.

Nights went on like this. The girl would appear, always at the foot of the bed, always pointing to the floor. I became obsessed, losing sleep, dreading the darkness. I tried to ignore her, to keep my eyes shut, but the pull was too strong. One night, I mustered the courage to speak. ‘Who are you?’ I whispered. The girl tilted her head, and then she faded away. But the next night, she brought a companion—an old woman, hunched and wispy, in a long black dress. The woman pointed too, with a gnarled finger, at the floor. I felt an intense urgency, as if I had to do something. I slid off the bunk and knelt on the cold floor, running my hands over the wood. I felt a slight give near the wall, where a board was loose. I pried it up, revealing a small cavity. Inside, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a tarnished locket and a faded photograph. The photo showed a little girl in the same nightgown, standing next to the old woman, in front of a house I recognized as ours, but with a different roof and a porch where now there was a garage. The inscription read: ‘Alice and Elsie, 1898.’

I took the items to my grandfather the next morning. I told him everything. He was quiet for a long time, then he spoke in a low voice. ‘This was your great-great-grandmother’s house. There was a fire in 1901. A little girl named Alice was trapped in the attic. Her nurse, Elsie, tried to save her but died too. They never found the bodies. They said their spirits lingered.’ He pointed to the locket. ‘That was Alice’s. She used to wear it always.’ I felt a chill. That night, I placed the locket and the photo back in the cavity, and I whispered to the air, ‘I’m sorry you’re lost. I’ll tell your story.’ The mist appeared one last time. The girl smiled, and then she and the woman faded into the moonlight. I never saw them again, but I kept the locket, and I knew they were at peace. I told my brother, and he actually believed me when I showed him the locket. We never spoke of it again, but we both avoided the bottom bunk for the rest of that year. The story never left me. Some nights, I still wake up and look to the foot of the bed, but there’s nothing there. Only the memory of a little girl who found her way home through me.