The Portrait in the Parlor

In the damp autumn of 1987, I lived with my mother and younger brother in a two-story Victorian house in the outskirts of Providence, Rhode Island. The house had a peeling gray exterior and a wraparound porch that groaned underfoot. We occupied the ground floor, while my uncle, a reclusive clockmaker, lived above. The parlor, which we never used, held a massive stone fireplace, its mouth black with soot from a time before our arrival.

One afternoon, while rummaging through a dusty cabinet in that parlor, I found a daguerreotype tucked behind a stack of yellowed newspapers. It showed a girl, maybe eleven, with porcelain skin and startling green eyes, wearing a thin white baptismal gown, barefoot, standing in a field of tall grass. Her expression was serene, but something about the way her head was tilted made my skin crawl. I slipped the photograph into my pocket and headed next door to my friend Emily’s house.

Emily’s mother, Mrs. Crenshaw, was a stout woman who had lived in the neighborhood for decades. I showed her the picture, asking if she recognized the girl. Her face went pale, and she took a long drag from her cigarette before speaking. ‘That’s Lily Marsh,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘She vanished twenty years ago, right after the Harvest Festival. The police searched for weeks, but they never found her. Her family moved away, but her mother swore she saw Lily standing at the window of this very house every night until they left.’ I felt a chill run down my spine, but I shrugged it off, thinking it was just an old story.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept the photograph on my nightstand, and when I finally drifted off, I dreamed of a girl in a white gown standing in a field, calling my name. I woke to the sound of scratching, like fingers dragging along the inside of our bedroom walls. I sat up, heart pounding, and saw a faint figure in the hallway, just beyond the doorframe. It was the same height as Lily, but it was gone when I turned on the lamp.

The next morning, I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a nightmare brought on by Mrs. Crenshaw’s story. Yet, strange things began to happen. The fireplace, which hadn’t been lit in years, would occasionally puff out a whiff of cold air, as if something were breathing through the flue. My brother claimed he saw a girl’s face in the upstairs window, but when we checked, there was nothing.

One evening, I decided to investigate the fireplace more closely. I stuck my head into the hearth and looked up. Within the darkness of the chimney, I saw a small, pale face staring down at me, its green eyes glowing faintly. I stumbled back, shouting, but when my mother came, there was nothing there. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lily was trapped in this house, and she wanted out.

I began researching the history of our home. At the local library, I found an old newspaper article from 1967 detailing Lily’s disappearance. It mentioned that the Marsh family had lived in a house that once stood on the exact spot where our parlor now sat. The original house had been torn down in the 70s, and our Victorian was built on the same foundation. The fireplace was part of the original structure, preserved during construction.

Determined to help, I returned home and knelt before the fireplace. I lit a candle, as an offering, and spoke softly to the darkness. ‘Lily, if you’re here, we want to help you. Are you stuck?’ The flame flickered, and the temperature in the room dropped sharply. From deep within the chimney, I heard a child’s voice, faint but clear: ‘They took me.’

I felt a cold breeze wrap around me, and suddenly I was no longer in my house. I stood in a dimly lit cellar, the walls made of stone. In the corner, a small girl in a white gown was huddled, her face buried in her knees. She looked up, and I saw tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘They buried me under the hearth,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave until someone finds me.’

I woke up on the parlor floor, the candle burnt out. I was trembling, but now I knew what I had to do. I called the local historical society and learned that the original house had been owned by a man named Elias Granger, who was known for his cruelty to children. There were rumors of a hidden compartment beneath the hearth.

That night, with a crowbar and a flashlight, I pried away the stones at the base of the fireplace. Underneath, I found a small space, and inside, a tiny wooden box. My heart raced as I opened it. Inside was a child’s locket and a note, written in a child’s handwriting: ‘They locked me in the dark. I can see the light from the crack, but they won’t let me out.’

I immediately called the police, who excavated the area. Two days later, they found the remains of a young girl, wrapped in a white shroud, buried just beneath the hearth. Forensics confirmed it was Lily Marsh. The case was reopened, and evidence led to Elias Granger, who had died years ago, but his crimes were finally exposed.

After the remains were properly laid to rest, the strange occurrences stopped. The parlor felt lighter, and the fireplace no longer emitted cold drafts. I often think of Lily, and I keep the photograph in a frame on my dresser, not as a reminder of horror, but as a testament to the voice that finally found peace. Yet, sometimes, late at night, I catch a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, and I wonder if she’s still watching over us, grateful that we set her free.