The Parlor Game

The autumn of 2021 was unseasonably warm, and my partner, Lena, and I had decided to host our first Thanksgiving in the old convent we’d bought six months prior. The place was a maze of narrow corridors and high-ceilinged rooms, with a chapel that we’d converted into a study. It had a history, of course—abandoned since the late 1950s after a scandal involving the Mother Superior—but we were charmed by the leaded glass windows and the hand-carved banisters.

Our guests arrived, and the house filled with the scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon. Among them was my nephew, Oliver, a quiet five-year-old who clung to a threadbare rabbit he called Mister Whiskers. Lena and I had spent the whole day preparing, and by evening, the meal was a triumph. We laughed, told stories, and drank too much wine. As the night wore on, the familiar lethargy of a heavy meal settled over everyone. One by one, they drifted to the guest rooms, leaving Lena and me to clean up.

I was full and drowsy, but I had a nagging urge to check the attic—we’d left the window ajar for some air, and I worried about rain. The attic stairs were steep and creaked with my weight. At the top, the pale glow of the moon filtered through the dusty window, illuminating boxes of old vestments and religious artifacts from the convent’s past. I was about to close the window when I noticed a small rocking chair in the corner, the kind a child might use. It was moving gently, as if someone had just stood up. I froze, my heart thudding. The air was cold, and I could see my breath. I hurried back down, telling myself it was just my imagination.

Later, as I lay in bed beside Lena, sleep wouldn’t come. The house settled with groans and ticks, but between them, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound—something like a ball bouncing, soft and measured, coming from the floor below. I checked the time: 3:33 AM. I slipped out of bed and padded to the stairway. The sound was coming from the main hallway, which we’d left with a single nightlight burning. From the top of the stairs, I could see the dark mouth of the living room, and there, under the dining table, was a small figure.

My skin pricked. The figure was no more than three feet tall, dressed in a pale yellow nightgown, with long hair that obscured her face. She was standing perfectly still, one hand resting on a child’s wooden ball, the other holding something—a familiar shape. I squinted: it was Mister Whiskers, Oliver’s rabbit. My breath caught. Oliver was asleep in his mother’s room; I’d tuck him in myself. The girl picked up the rabbit and took a step toward me. Her movement was jerky, like a marionette, and when she drew closer, I saw her face was blank—no eyes, no mouth, just smooth skin.

I wanted to scream, but my voice was a knot. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and extended the rabbit to me. I felt compelled to take it, my hand trembling. The moment my fingers closed around the rabbit, she vanished, leaving only a cold patch of air. I looked down at Mister Whiskers—it was damp, as if it had been clutched in a sweaty palm. I called out Oliver’s name, but no one answered. The nightlight flickered.

I went to Oliver’s room. The door was ajar, and he was sound asleep, his face peaceful. I placed the rabbit beside him, vowing to keep the incident to myself. But as I turned to leave, I noticed something on the nightstand: a faded photograph in a silver frame. I hadn’t seen it before, but it showed a group of Victorian-era schoolgirls in white dresses, and in the center, the same child—the girl under the table—was staring at the camera with dark, hollow eyes. On the back, in spidery handwriting, were the words: “For what we lose in the light, we find in the parlor.”

I returned to bed, but sleep was now a stranger. The next morning, the house felt different—the air heavy with a scent of dust and old cloth. Oliver was sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal, and when I saw him, I noted that he was clutching a ball he’d never had before, a red wooden ball with a crack running through it. I asked where he’d gotten it, and he said, “The girl in the yellow dress gave it to me.” I tried to smile, pretending I didn’t understand. But he added, “She said she’s been waiting for someone to play with since she got lost.”

That night, I insisted that Oliver stay with his mother, and after everyone retired, I searched the house for any sign of the child. In the basement, behind an old furnace, I found a small door I’d never noticed before. It was padlocked, but the lock was rusted and easily snapped. Beyond it was a tiny room, no bigger than a closet, its walls covered in faded floral wallpaper. In the corner was a child’s dresser, and on top, a stack of photographs. They were all of the same girl, but in each, she appeared younger, more transparent. The last photo showed her lying in a small wooden box, her eyes closed, her hands folded around a rabbit—not Mister Whiskers, but an identical one.

I heard a sound behind me, and I spun around. The girl was standing at the threshold, her head tilted. This time, her face had features—a small mouth, but it was stretched into a grimace. She said, “You found my room. Now you have to stay.” Her voice was like the buzz of a dying fly. I bolted, but the door slammed shut, and the lights went out. I scrambled in the dark, my hands scraping against the walls, until I found a gap and squeezed through. I emerged in the basement, covered in cobwebs, and ran upstairs. The hallway was silent, and the dawn light was beginning to filter through the windows.

Everyone was packing up to leave. Oliver was crying—he said the girl had taken Mister Whiskers, and he couldn’t find him anywhere. We searched, but the rabbit was gone. As I waved goodbye to Olivia and the kids, I felt a small, cold hand slip into mine. I looked down, and there was the girl, her yellow dress now stained with dirt, her face a mask of sorrow. She said, “I’m sorry I scared you. But no one’s ever stayed this long before.” And in that moment, I realized she wasn’t a ghost to haunt us—she was a child who had been lost, and we were the first to ever acknowledge her.

We left the convent shortly after, unable to shake the chill from our bones. But occasionally, I think about her, and I wonder if anyone else will ever find her. I still have the photograph, and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see a small girl watching me from under the furniture, waiting for me to stay.