The Quiet Corner

The day we moved into the house on Maple Street, I felt a wrongness in the air, like a note played off-key that you can’t quite place. The previous owners had been an old couple, the kind who let the lilacs grow wild and never bothered to repaint the shutters. Our new home was only twenty years old, but it had a musty smell, especially in the hallway outside my room. My room was a rectangle with two windows facing the backyard, my bed tucked into the corner opposite the door. Across from my door was the bathroom, and between my door and the bathroom, another door led to my younger sister’s room. I used to joke that we lived in a shotgun shack, but the layout felt almost ritualistic, like a triangle of thresholds.

Two weeks into our new life, I was lying on my bed with a dog-eared novel, the afternoon sun slanting through the curtains. I glanced up, and there she was: a little girl standing at my sister’s door, her back to me. She wore a tattered white nightgown that pooled at her feet, her black hair a stark curtain. She seemed to be peering into the room, but when I shifted, she turned her head slightly, revealing a pale, hollow cheek. Her expression was one of profound sadness, not menace. Then she simply wasn’t there. I blinked, convinced I had imagined it, but a chill crept up my spine.

After that, I found myself drawn to her. I would sit on my bed at night, the door open a crack, and speak softly into the dark. I asked her name, her story, begging for a flicker of the lights, a shuffle on the carpet. Nothing. The only sign of her was that occasional glimpse, always at my sister’s door, always with that same mournful stare. I grew bolder, talking to her as if she were a shy animal. I told her I had a sister, that we were a good family, that she didn’t have to be lonely. She never answered.

Then, one evening, in a fit of pity, I said, ‘It’s time for you to go. Find your loved ones. Don’t stay here mourning.’ My voice was gentle but firm. I felt a sudden chill, and the door to my sister’s room creaked, though there was no breeze. For two days, I saw her no more. I thought I had succeeded in moving her on. I told my sister that the ‘scary ghost’ was gone, and she laughed, but a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I had hoped she would find peace, but I worried I had only driven her away.

On the third night, I woke to a sound like a whisper, almost a word. My door was open, and the hallway light cast a dim pool. There, in the corner my bed faced, stood the girl. But now she was not at my sister’s door. She was inches from my own bed, her face tilted up at me, and her black eyes were not sad anymore. They were empty, like deep wells. Her mouth moved, but no sound came. Then she raised a thin, pale hand, and pointed to the door of my sister’s room. She spoke, or seemed to speak, and I heard the words in my mind: ‘They don’t want me.’

I woke with a gasp, the sheets twisted around me. I ran to my sister’s room, but she was asleep, breathing softly. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my kindness had been a mistake, that I had broken some barrier I didn’t understand. Now, I lie in my bed every night, my eyes fixed on the corner where she last stood, and I listen to the house settle. Sometimes, I think I see her again, not at the door, but just behind me, looking over my shoulder, and I wonder if I am the one who is not wanted anymore.