The Painted Door at Number 12

At fourteen, I thought I’d outgrown the nervous thrill of new places. When my mother announced we were moving to the coastal town of Saltmarsh for her new job, I mostly felt annoyance. I’d have to leave my friends, my school, the only home I’d known. But my parents were firm, so we packed our lives into cardboard and drove north, away from the city, towards the grey sea.

For two months, we lived with my aunt and uncle in their cramped apartment above a bakery. The smell of yeast was comforting, but the walls were thin and my cousin’s snoring was a nightly torment. I spent those months exploring the town, getting to know its narrow streets and the abandoned pier, and slowly, reluctantly, I started to like it. The salt in the air, the cries of gulls, the ever-present sound of the tide. When we finally found a house – a tall, narrow Victorian at the end of a row – I was almost excited.

The house was called ‘The Old Anchor’, and it looked it. It had a weathered sign above the door and a front yard of tangled weeds. Inside, it smelled of dust and sea salt. There was a living room with floral wallpaper, a kitchen with a black stove, and a basement that my mother forbade me from entering until it was ‘cleaned out’. The upstairs had three bedrooms and, at the top of the stairs, a small bathroom. But it was the attic that drew my eye – a small, cobwebbed window under the eave. My mother said we’d never use it, but I knew I had to see it.

We spent days unpacking, and I forgot about the attic until the second night. I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent, but it hummed with a strange energy, like a held breath. I got up and went to the hallway. The attic door was shut, and a faint draft leaked out from under it. I turned the brass knob, but it was locked. I remembered seeing a key on a hook in the kitchen, the one with a red tag, and I grabbed it. The key turned with a click, and the door swung open onto a steep, narrow staircase.

I climbed up. The attic was filled with old furniture – a rocking chair, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a spinning wheel. Dust motes danced in the light of a bare bulb that I pulled. There were boxes, but I wasn’t interested. There was something in the corner, draped with a white sheet. I pulled it off, revealing a large, old painting in a heavy gilded frame. It was a portrait of a man in a dark coat, his face in shadow, but his eyes seemed to follow me. I felt cold, and I pulled the sheet back over it. But then I noticed something else – a dollhouse in the corner. It was a miniature replica of the house I was in, right down to the attic window. Curious, I knelt down. The dollhouse’s attic was cluttered with tiny furniture, and in the miniature attic, there was a tiny painted portrait of the same man, but now his mouth was open in a silent scream. I felt a chill, and I backed away.

That night, I dreamed of the basement. I saw stone walls, a dirt floor, and a single oil lamp. In the corner was a wooden crate, and inside, a child’s toy – a painted wooden horse. Then I heard a girl’s laugh, light and hollow, and it echoed up to me. I woke with a start, my heart racing.

The next day, I told my mother about the attic. She frowned and said, ‘That attic is off-limits, you hear me? It’s not safe.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Why?’ I asked. She just shook her head and said, ‘Because I said so. Now, go help your father with the boxes.’ I didn’t push, but I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I’d turn corners and catch a glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of my eye. Doors would creak when no one was moving. And I kept hearing laughter – a girl’s laughter, faint and distant, but definitely there. One night, I followed the sound. It led me to the basement door. My mother had forbidden me, but I was too curious. I opened the door and descended. The stairs were bare wood, creaking under my weight. The basement was just as I had dreamed – stone walls, dirt floor. It was cold, and the only light came from a small, grimy window near the ceiling. I saw the wooden crate in the corner. I walked over and lifted the lid. Inside was the painted wooden horse, but now it was covered in red dust, and there was a note beneath it, yellowed with age. It read: ‘She wanted to fly, so she tried the attic window. She didn’t know it was boarded shut.’ I felt sick.

I ran upstairs and confronted my mother. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea. ‘Who was she?’ I asked, my voice trembling. My mother looked at me, surprised, then her face fell. ‘That house has a history,’ she said quietly. ‘A little girl named Emily. She loved the attic. She would play up there with her dollhouse. One day, she fell out of the attic window. They say she didn’t die instantly. She called for help, but no one heard her until it was too late.’ I felt cold all over. ‘So it’s true,’ I whispered. ‘She’s still here.’ My mother nodded. ‘That’s why I didn’t want you to go up there. Her spirit is restless. She’s been trying to find a friend.’

That night, I went back to the attic. I opened the dollhouse and saw that the tiny portrait had moved – now it was of a little girl with dark hair, smiling. I heard a soft giggle behind me. I turned, but no one was there. But I felt a presence, a small hand slipping into mine. I looked at the dollhouse. In the miniature attic, the portrait of the girl had changed to a portrait of me, screaming.

I yanked my hand away and ran down to the kitchen. I told my parents I wanted to leave, but my father said we just moved in and couldn’t afford to move again. That night, I slept with the lights on. But when I woke, I found a small painted wooden horse on my bedside table. It was covered in red dust.

I never went up to the attic again. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a girl’s laugh, and a thump, as if a dollhouse’s door has swung open. And I know she’s waiting for me – for one more game of pretend. But it’s not pretend anymore. It’s real.