The Parlor’s Price

I remember the summer I turned fifteen, when my family moved to the small town of Ashford, and I found myself enrolled in a high school that merged two middle schools. The halls were a sea of unfamiliar faces, and I clung to the edges, trying to find my footing. That’s when I met Mira, a year older than me, with a laugh that seemed to echo off the lockers and a fondness for stray cats that she’d feed behind the gym. We clicked instantly, bonding over our love for animals and her absurd sense of humor that could turn the gloomiest day into a giggle fit. When she invited me to spend the night at her place and join her at a party on Friday, I jumped at the chance. My mom agreed to pick me up the next day, and I packed my bag with excitement.

Mira’s house was a relic, a Victorian farmhouse that had seen better decades. It sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by overgrown fields and a forest that seemed to press in on all sides. The paint was peeling, and the porch sagged slightly, but there was a strange beauty to it, like a forgotten photograph. Mira lived there with her father, her younger siblings, and a cousin who occupied the separate wing, a sort of annex that had its own entrance and was shut off from the rest of the house. Her mother had passed away when the kids were young, a fact Mira mentioned casually, but I saw a shadow cross her eyes.

When we stepped through the front door, we entered a parlor—I’d never seen one in real life. It was a time capsule: heavy drapes, ornate furniture covered in lace doilies, a piano in the corner with yellowed keys, and a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been lit in decades. The air was thick with dust and the faint smell of lavender, and the floorboards creaked under our feet. Mira led me up the stairs to her room, which was cluttered with posters and books, a stark contrast to the museum below. She told me to get comfortable, and I flopped onto her bed while she rummaged for a change of clothes.

As the evening wore on, Mira’s father called us down for dinner. He was a gaunt man with hollow eyes, and he spoke little, mostly staring at his plate. The kids—her younger sister, Ellie, and brother, Tom—were quiet too, exchanging glances but saying nothing. Mira tried to keep the conversation light, but there was a tension in the air, like a string pulled too tight. After dinner, we helped clean up, and then Mira suggested we explore the house. She said she’d show me the cousin’s wing, even though he was away that weekend. They always kept it locked, but she knew where the spare key was hidden.

We crept down a narrow hallway, the floorboards groaning beneath our weight, until we reached a door that looked older than the rest, carved with strange symbols that I couldn’t decipher. Mira produced a rusty key from her pocket and turned it with a click. The door swung open to reveal a dusty stairway leading down, not up. I thought it was odd—wings typically rose above, but this one descended into what felt like a cellar. Mira shrugged and said, ‘The elle is underground here. It’s weird, but that’s how they built it.’ She flicked on a flashlight, and we descended into the dark.

At the bottom, we found a narrow corridor lined with doors, all shut. ‘Those are just storage rooms,’ Mira said, but her voice had a tremble. At the end of the corridor, there was a heavy wooden door with a cast-iron handle. ‘That’s my cousin’s study,’ she said. ‘He told me never to go in there. But he’s not home, so…’ She pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.

The study was smaller than I expected, but it was packed with shelves of books, old tomes with cracked spines, and jars filled with strange specimens floating in murky liquid. In the center, on a mahogany desk, sat an open book—a journal, with handwritten notes in a spidery script. Mira picked it up, and as she flipped the pages, her face grew pale. ‘This is my mother’s,’ she whispered. ‘I thought she burned all her journals.’ She read aloud a passage: ‘The parlor’s price must be paid each generation, or the house will take its due.’ We both looked at each other, a chill running down our spines. Then the door slammed shut behind us, and the lights flickered.

We rushed to the door, but it was locked from the outside. Panic surged through me as we pounded on the wood, shouting for help, but our voices seemed to be swallowed by the thick silence. The flashlight flickered and died, plunging us into darkness. I could hear Mira’s ragged breathing beside me. ‘We’re stuck,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘My cousin warned me about this place. He said the house feeds on the memories of the dead.’

We fumbled in the dark, trying to find a way out, but the room seemed to shift, the walls moving closer. I felt a cold draft, and then whispers began—soft, indistinct, like voices from far away. They grew louder, turning into a cacophony of cries and pleas. I clamped my hands over my ears, but the sounds were inside my head. Mira screamed, and I felt her grab my arm, pulling me toward a corner. ‘There’s a trapdoor here,’ she said, her voice urgent. We pried it open and found a narrow shaft leading down into blackness. Without a second thought, we slid down, landing hard on damp earth.

We found ourselves in a cellar beneath the house, filled with old crates and a foul smell. The whispers were fainter here, but I could still feel a presence, watching. Mira was trembling, tears streaming down her face. ‘My mother’s journal mentioned a hidden room,’ she said. ‘Where they kept the… offerings.’ We searched the walls, and behind a stack of rotting burlap, we found a door hidden behind a bookshelf. We pushed it open, revealing a small room with a stone altar, stained dark with something that looked like dried blood. On the altar lay a collection of photographs—all of them featuring children, their faces contorted in fear. Among them, I saw a photo of Mira’s mother as a young girl, and another of a boy who looked just like Mira.

We stumbled back, horrified. The whispers returned, louder now, surrounding us. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see a spectral figure—a woman with hollow eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream. She pointed to the altar. ‘Give your memories,’ she seemed to say. ‘Or remain forever.’ Mira grabbed my hand, and we ran, bursting through a door that led to the backyard, collapsing onto the grass, gasping for air.

We never went back to that house. We told our parents we got lost in the woods, and they moved away soon after. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I hear those whispers, and I see that woman’s face. And I know that the parlor is hungry, and it will keep its price, no matter how far we run.