The Pacing Room

My name is Marcus, and I grew up in a modest two-story house in the sleepy town of Pine Ridge, Oregon. We moved there when I was nine, after my father’s job transfer. The house was old, with creaky floors and drafty windows, but it was ours. The only odd thing was the spare room at the end of the upstairs hallway. It was always locked, and the realtor said the previous owner had used it for storage. We never thought much of it.

A few weeks after we settled in, I started hearing sounds from that room. At first, it was just a faint scraping, like someone dragging furniture across the floor. I’d call out, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ but the noise would stop abruptly. My parents dismissed it as the house settling, and my older sister, Jenna, said it was probably squirrels in the attic. But I knew better.

The sounds grew more frequent and varied. Sometimes it was a rhythmic thumping, like footsteps pacing back and forth. Other times, it was the sound of something heavy being dropped, echoing through the ceiling. One afternoon, while I was home alone, the pacing started, and I heard a door slam so hard the windows rattled. I ran upstairs, heart pounding, and found the door to the spare room wide open. The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust and a single, worn-out rocking chair in the corner. In the center of the floor, there was a large, circular indentation in the wood, as if something heavy had been dropped there repeatedly.

The realtor later told us that the previous owner, an elderly woman named Mrs. Higgins, had died in that room. She had been bedridden for years, and her only companion was an old rocking chair. The house had been on the market for a long time, and no one else had wanted it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that her spirit was still there, trapped in that room.

Over the months, the noises became more intense. It was as if the room was alive, and something within it was growing restless. I started sleeping with my door locked, but that didn’t stop the sounds. One night, I woke to the unmistakable sound of a bowling ball dropping onto the floor, followed by a low, mournful moan. I crept to the door, pressed my ear against it, and heard the pacing start again, faster and faster, until it stopped right outside my door. I held my breath, waiting, but nothing happened. The next morning, I found the spare room door open, and the rocking chair was now in the center of the room, facing the door, as if waiting for someone to enter.

My parents grew worried about me. They thought the house was getting to me, so they decided to sell. But before they could, the noises stopped. For three days, there was dead silence. I should have felt relieved, but instead, I felt a growing dread. On the third night, I woke to the sound of my own name being called, not in a whisper, but in a clear, desperate voice. ‘Marcus…’ It was coming from the spare room. I knew I had to face it.

I walked to the room, my heart in my throat. The door was ajar, and a faint light flickered from within. I pushed it open and saw the rocking chair in the middle of the room, gently swaying. The air was cold, and I could see my breath. Then, the rocking chair stopped, and a voice said, ‘You’re the first to hear me. Thank you.’ I looked around, but there was no one. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘I was trapped,’ the voice said. ‘The Ouija board. It’s in the closet. She used it to talk to me, but she never said goodbye. Now I can’t leave.’

I opened the closet, and there, on the floor, was a dusty Ouija board. I picked it up, and the planchette began to move on its own, spelling out letters. ‘I’M SORRY’ it said. ‘I should have let you go.’ I felt a sudden understanding. Mrs. Higgins had been using the Ouija board to contact her dead husband, but she had unknowingly trapped him in the room when she died. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to set him free.

I took the board outside and burned it. The flames turned blue, and for a moment, I heard a relieved sigh. Then, the silence was absolute. The room was still, and I never heard the pacing again. We moved out a month later, and I never looked back. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that faint, rhythmic pacing, and I wonder if Mrs. Higgins found her own peace, or if she’s still waiting for someone else to hear her.

Years later, I returned to Pine Ridge for a visit. The house was abandoned, and the door to the spare room was open. I walked in, and the rocking chair was there, in the corner, motionless. On the floor, there was a new indentation, as if something had been pacing again. And in the closet, there was another Ouija board, just like the one I had burned. I left it there, but as I walked away, I heard a faint knock from the room above. It was a single, deliberate knock, as if to say, ‘I’ll be here when you come back.’ I haven’t returned since, but I know, one day, I will have to. That house is a part of me now, and the pacing room will always be waiting.