The Rocking Chair in Room 4

Before I tell you what happened, you should know I don’t have a name for it. I just know it’s real. It happened in the summer of 2003, when I was nine, in a creaky old house my family inherited from a distant aunt. The house was called ‘Willowmere’ because of the massive willow tree that drooped over the front lawn, but the name always felt too pretty for it. The paint was peeling, the floorboards sagged, and the attic door was always stuck. My best friend, Danny, lived two houses down in a similar Victorian relic, but his was well-kept and cheerful. Mine felt like it held its breath.

My mum had told me about Danny’s great-uncle who used to live there. He had died in the back bedroom, or so the neighbors said, but Danny’s mum never talked about it. Instead, she told us about the rocking chair. It was a child-sized wooden rocker that had belonged to Danny when he was three. It creaked even when no one sat in it. His mum said she’d hear it sometimes, late at night, and if she shouted, ‘Go to bed, already,’ the creaking would stop. She always laughed when she told us, but her eyes didn’t.

I thought it was a joke until one night, during a sleepover at Danny’s, I heard it. We were in his room on the second floor, the door open a crack, when a slow creak came from the hallway. It was rhythmic, like someone slowly rocking. Danny’s mum’s voice came from the living room below: ‘Go to bed, already.’ The creaking stopped. I looked at Danny, and he had gone pale. ‘It does that,’ he whispered. ‘I never go out there at night.’

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking about my own house, Willowmere, and how it had a similar creaky floorboard outside my room. I had a kitten named Biscuit, a fluffy orange tabby who slept at the foot of my bed. A few nights after the sleepover, Biscuit woke me up, hissing and arching his back. I sat up, heart pounding, and heard a soft creak from the hallway. It was the same sound, but slower, more deliberate. I held my breath. The creaking stopped. Then it started again, coming closer. I pulled the covers over my head, whispering to Biscuit to be quiet. The creaking reached my door and stopped. I waited, barely breathing, until it faded away.

The next morning, I told my mum. She said, ‘It’s just the house settling, love.’ But I saw her glance at the hallway with a frown. My dad laughed it off, but he checked the attic door that afternoon, and it was locked from the inside. We had never locked it. He didn’t say anything, but his hands were shaking as he relocked it.

Weeks passed, and the creaking became a nightly visitor. Biscuit refused to sleep in my room anymore, and I found him one morning crouched in the corner of the living room, staring at the ceiling. One night, I decided to investigate. My parents were asleep, and I tiptoed out into the hallway, holding a flashlight. The creaking was coming from the attic. I climbed the creaky stairs, my heart hammering, and found the attic door slightly ajar. It had been locked, but now it wasn’t. I pushed it open, and the smell of old dust and mothballs hit me. There, in the middle of the attic, was a rocking chair—the exact same one from Danny’s house. It was rocking back and forth on its own, a soft, steady rhythm.

I screamed and scrambled back down, slamming the attic door behind me. The creaking stopped. I ran to my room, shaking, and buried myself under the covers. The next morning, I told my parents, but they found nothing in the attic but old boxes. The rocking chair was gone.

That afternoon, I went to Danny’s house. His mum let me in, and I told her what I’d seen. Her face went white. She said, ‘That chair was buried with my uncle. We had a funeral for it, you know, because he loved it so much. It was in his casket.’ She looked at me, her eyes wide. ‘Maybe it’s not the same chair. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.’ But I knew it wasn’t.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard the creaking again, but this time it was in my room. I looked over and saw the rocking chair next to my bed, slowly rocking. And in it was a shape—a dark, blurred form that seemed to solidify as I watched. It was an old man, thin and gaunt, his eyes hollow. He smiled at me, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, I heard a voice in my head: ‘I want to rock you, child.’

I bolted out of bed, screaming, and ran to my parents’ room. They found me in hysterics, and when they went back to my room, the chair was gone. They thought I’d had a nightmare, but I knew better. Biscuit was found dead the next morning in the backyard, his neck broken. The vet said it was a fall, but I knew it wasn’t.

I refused to sleep in that room again. My parents thought it was grief and let me sleep in the guest room. But every night, I’d hear the creaking outside my door, and sometimes, I’d see the shadow of a rocking chair in the hallway. My mother’s cousin, who was a priest, came to bless the house. He said there was an old spirit, one that had latched onto the house because of the chair. He said it wasn’t evil, just lonely, and it wanted a child to play with. He performed a ritual, and for a while, the creaking stopped.

But last week, when I was clearing out the attic with my dad, we found an old photograph. It was of a little girl, maybe four years old, sitting in a rocking chair identical to the one I’d seen. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘My dearest Ellen, forever in our hearts.’ My dad went pale. He said, ‘Ellen was my great-aunt. She died when she was four, in this house. The rocker was hers.’

That’s when I knew. The spirit wasn’t old man; it was a little girl. The rocking chair was her’s, and she wanted to play. I don’t know if she’s good or bad, but she’s still here. I hear the creaking every night, but now I listen. Last night, I heard a small voice, barely a whisper: ‘Come play with me.’

I don’t know what to do. I just want to know what she wants. So that’s my story. That’s what happened in the summer of 2003, in Willowmere, and what’s still happening. I’m not sure if it’s a ghost or a curse, but I know it’s real. And the rocking chair is in my room again, waiting for me.