The Room with the Painted Ceiling

The first time I saw the girl with the painted-on smile, I was twelve, and I thought she was just a trick of the light. I was in my grandmother’s attic, rummaging through a trunk of old photographs, when a shadow slid across the wall, taking the shape of a girl my age. She wore a dress the color of dried blood, and her mouth was a slash of red, as if someone had drawn it on. She was gone in a blink, but the air in the attic felt heavier, and I knew I was not alone.

My grandmother called her ‘the visitor,’ and she warned me never to acknowledge her. ‘They grow stronger if you give them attention,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. But I was young, and I was curious. I started leaving small gifts for the girl, a hair ribbon, a chipped teacup, a forgotten book. Each time, I felt her presence grow, until one day she spoke to me, her voice like a recording played backward. ‘Anna,’ she whispered. ‘My name is Anna.’

Years passed, and I moved away from my grandmother’s house, but Anna followed me. She was always there, in the periphery, in the corner of my eye. I tried to ignore her, but she grew bolder, appearing in my bedroom at night, standing by my bed, her hollow eyes fixed on me. My parents thought I was going mad, and I began to believe them. But then, at seventeen, I found an old photograph in a thrift store, a family portrait from the 1950s. The girl in the middle, with the painted smile, was Anna.

I became obsessed with finding out who she was. I traced the photograph to a town in the Pacific Northwest, a place called Blackwood. The town was dying, its streets empty, its houses boarded up. The only building with any life was the Blackwood Hotel, a grand relic of a bygone era, its painted ceiling peeling and stained. I checked in, feeling a pull, a recognition. That night, Anna appeared in my room, her form more solid than ever. She pointed to the ceiling, and I saw a pattern in the grime, a face, a girl’s face, and a name: Anna Blackwood.

The hotel’s owner, an old woman named Mrs. Holloway, told me the story. Anna was the daughter of the hotel’s original owner, a girl who had died in the 1950s under mysterious circumstances. Her body was never found, and her spirit was said to haunt the hotel. Mrs. Holloway warned me to leave, but I couldn’t. I felt a connection to Anna, a kinship with a lost soul.

That night, I woke to a sound, like a child crying. I followed it to a door I hadn’t noticed before, a door that led to the basement. The stairs were steep, and the air was cold. At the bottom, in a small room, I found a chest. Inside were Anna’s belongings, a diary, a doll, and a birth certificate. The birth certificate listed her mother as Mary Blackwood, and her father as unknown. But there was a letter, tied with a ribbon, addressed to a priest, confessing a sin. Mary Blackwood had been raped by the hotel’s handyman, and Anna was the result. She died of a broken heart, or so the letter said, but the truth was darker.

Anna had been killed by the handyman, who was jealous of the attention she received. He had buried her in the hotel’s foundation, but her spirit refused to rest. She was trapped, a prisoner of the building, her anger fueling her presence. I realized I was not being haunted by a ghost, but by a victim, a girl who never got justice.

I decided to help her. I found the handyman’s records, his name was Edwin Craven, and he had died years ago, but his family still lived in town. I confronted them, but they denied everything. So I went to the police, and with the evidence I had, they exhumed the foundation. They found Anna’s remains, still in a shallow grave. They gave her a proper burial, and that night, Anna came to me one last time. She looked at me with gratitude, her painted smile gone, replaced by a serene expression. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then she was gone.

I left Blackwood, but I still see spirits. Now, I help them, as I helped Anna. Because every ghost has a story, and every story deserves an ending.