The Saffron Room

The house on Hemlock Lane had a way of keeping secrets, but the one it kept best was the room at the end of the upstairs hall. I never went in there, not once in the five years we lived there, because the door was always locked, and Mom said the key was lost. But sometimes, late at night, I’d hear something from behind that door—a soft, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, or maybe a muffled cry. I told myself it was the pipes, or the wind, but I knew better. I’d seen things in that house from the start: a flicker of a woman in a saffron dress at the top of the stairs, the smell of pipe smoke in the parlor when no one smoked, and the way the grandfather clock in the foyer always stopped at 3:33, no matter how many times we wound it.

My best friend, Marisol, and I were obsessed with the haunting. We’d sneak into the attic with a flashlight and a notebook, cataloguing every strange occurrence. Marisol was the brave one; I was the believer. She’d roll her eyes whenever I got goosebumps, but she never missed a chance to explore. One afternoon, we found a loose floorboard under an old trunk, and inside, a dusty cardboard box labeled ‘S. H.’

Inside the box were a faded photograph of a young woman with dark hair and a distant gaze, a worn leather journal, and a brass key. The woman in the photo wore a saffron-colored dress, and she stood in front of a house that looked exactly like ours, but with a porch and a swing. The journal’s pages were brittle, the ink rusty. The first entry was dated 1923: ‘They say me and my baby are cursed, but I’ll prove them wrong.’

Marisol grabbed the key. ‘We have to try it.’ I hesitated, but curiosity won. We crept to the locked door. The key turned with a click, and the door swung open. The room was small and bare, with a single window covered by a heavy saffron curtain. On the floor, a rusted chain was bolted to the wall, ending in a cuff. The journal in my hand suddenly felt cold.

That night, I dreamt I was the woman in the photograph. Her name was Edith, and she was a midwife living in 1923. She’d been called to the house on Hemlock Lane to deliver a baby, but the baby was stillborn. The father, a cruel man with a red beard, blamed her. He locked her in that room, chained her to the wall, and left her to starve. But Edith was a witch, or so she wrote, and she cursed the room, and the house, and anyone who disturbed it.

I woke up gasping, the chain around my own ankle. I looked down: it was a thin, cold metal band, not rusty, but there was a keyhole. Marisol was shaking me. ‘You’re screaming,’ she said. ‘I heard you all the way across the hall.’ But I wasn’t in my room. I was in the saffron room, lying on the bare floor, and the door was locked from the outside.

Marisol tried the key, but the lock had changed. I was trapped, and the room felt even colder. I could hear a heartbeat thumping through the walls, and the scent of saffron and old blood filled my nose. I grabbed the journal, hoping for a way out, and read the last entry: ‘I will not die here. I will pass my curse on, until one like me sets me free. She will know the truth and break the chain.’

I knew what I had to do. I took the key from Marisol (she’d unlocked the door from outside, but it wouldn’t open), and I turned it on the chain around my ankle. It clicked. The room seemed to shudder, and the curtains billowed as if a wind had swept through. The door swung open, and Edith stood there, solid and glowing faintly, in her saffron dress. She smiled, and then she faded, leaving only a whisper: ‘Thank you.’

I stepped out, and Marisol hugged me, crying. The house felt lighter, as if a weight had lifted. The grandfather clock started ticking again, and the door to the saffron room remained open, now just an empty room with sunshine streaming in.

But that night, I had another dream. I was a girl named Sally in a cramped apartment in Detroit, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. I could smell burning garbage and hear sirens. I knew this dream from before, but this time, I could see a boy with brown eyes in the corner, and he was holding a mallet. He started to walk toward me, and I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I woke up with a gasp, and my hand was bleeding. I had scratched my own arm. Marisol was beside me, pale. She whispered, ‘I saw her, too. She said, ‘One more.’ I looked at the window, and there was a soft blue glow. And then a tall figure appeared, silhouetted against the light, wearing brown boots and a blue checkered shirt. He tilted his head, and I saw his eyes—empty, but familiar, from my dreams. He reached out his hand, and I knew I wasn’t done with this house yet. The curse wasn’t broken, only moved. But I wasn’t alone. I had Marisol, and I had the journal. And I would find out who he was, and why he wanted me.