The Nightroom

I was seven when I learned that some rooms are hungry. My brother, Leo, was six, and my sister, Mira, was four. We lived in a rented farmhouse on the edge of a dead field in North Dakota, with our father’s old friend, a woman we called Mrs. Gable. She had a creased face and a voice like gravel, and she smelled of mothballs and dried apples. She let us stay in her spare room, a narrow space with a single bed, a dresser with a missing knob, and a window that looked out onto a wind-bent birch tree.

One night, while the wind harped at the glass, I decided to scare my younger siblings. I told them about a man who lived in the walls, a man with a smile that stretched ear to ear, who came out when the moon was full and the house was quiet. I whispered it in the dark, my voice low and sharp. Leo started to whimper, and Mira began to cry. They scrambled out of bed, their bare feet thumping on the cold wood floor, and ran to Mrs. Gable, who was in the parlor, watching a late-night news report about a missing child.

She did not scold me. She did not tell me to stop. Instead, she took me by the wrist, her fingers like cold twigs, and led me to a door at the end of the hall that I had never noticed before. It was painted a dark green, almost black, with a brass knob that looked tarnished and worn. She opened it, and a smell of dust and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit, drifted out.

‘This is my daughter’s room,’ Mrs. Gable said. ‘She is away. You will sleep here tonight.’ The room was small and ordinary. There was a bed with a quilt made of faded squares, a nightstand with a lamp, and a closet with a sliding door that was slightly ajar. The window was covered with a white curtain that billowed even though the window was closed. A single picture hung on the wall: a drawing of a house, done in child’s crayon, but the windows were colored in black.

I got into bed, and the sheets were cold and damp. Mrs. Gable turned off the light, and the door clicked shut. I lay in the dark, listening to the wind. The house creaked and settled. I tried to sleep, but I felt a pressure on my chest, like something was sitting on me. I opened my eyes, and the room was not completely dark. There was a faint glow coming from the closet, a pale white light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

The sliding door was now fully open. Inside, I could see the shape of a girl, about my age, with long dark hair that hung over her face. She was not moving, but she was staring at me. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My limbs felt heavy, as if they were weighted down. She took a step out of the closet. Her feet made no sound on the rug. She came closer, and closer, until she was standing at the foot of the bed.

She raised a hand, and I saw that her fingers were too long, with too many joints. She reached out and touched my forehead, and her touch was cold, like a piece of metal left outside in winter. In that moment, I felt a flood of images in my mind: a girl playing hide-and-seek, a girl crying, a girl locking herself in a closet, a girl’s small hands pushing against a door that would not open. I saw the same room, but older, more faded, and I saw the girl’s mouth moving, but no sound, just the word ‘sorry’ repeated over and over.

The girl leaned in, and her breath was like old soil. ‘You are in my bed,’ she whispered. ‘You are in my room.’ She smiled, and her smile stretched too wide, too far, like the man in my story. I felt a scream build inside me, but I could not release it.

Then, I heard a sound from the hallway. A thump, and then another. Footsteps. The door handle turned, and the door swung open. Mrs. Gable stood there, holding a candle. The flame flickered, casting long shadows. The girl was gone. The closet door was closed. Mrs. Gable looked at me with a strange expression, part pity and part something else. ‘She likes you,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t like many people.’

I did not sleep the rest of the night. I stayed awake, my eyes fixed on the closet door, until the grey light of dawn seeped through the curtains. When I finally did sleep, I dreamed of the girl, and in the dream, she was not alone. There was a whole row of children, all with the same dark hair, all standing in a line, all staring at me. They were all in the closet, waiting.

When I woke, I did not speak for a full day. My brother and sister asked what had happened, but I could not tell them. Mrs. Gable did not ask. She just gave me a cup of tea that tasted like rust. A week later, we moved out. I never saw Mrs. Gable again.

But sometimes, at night, when I close my eyes, I see that room. I see the girl. And I hear her voice, as clear as if she is beside me: ‘You are in my bed. You are in my room.’ And I know that somewhere, that room is still waiting. And it is hungry.