The Seventh Morning

I was hunched over my history textbook, the words blurring into a gray smear as the clock on my desk ticked past 8:47 PM. The house was silent—a silence so thick it felt like a blanket pressing on my ears. I’d been alone since my mother left for her night shift at the hospital, and I welcomed the solitude. I stretched, my joints cracking, and decided to grab a snack from the kitchen. I closed the door to my room behind me, the click echoing down the hallway. The kitchen was its usual stale air, the fridge humming like a tired beast. I grabbed an apple and a handful of crackers, then padded back upstairs.

When I pushed open my bedroom door, I froze. My textbooks were scattered across the floor, my pillow was in the middle of the bed, and the curtains were yanked half off the rod, swaying slightly as if a breeze had passed through. But the windows were closed. My heart thumped. I was alone—had always been alone in this house since my father left. I set the snack on my desk and scanned the room. Nothing moved. I sighed, blaming the drafty old house, and spent twenty minutes restoring order. I finished my homework, then turned on the TV to some late-night cartoon, the laugh track a hollow comfort.

At exactly 10:00 PM, a noise came from under my bed. It wasn’t a scratch or a thump—it was a low, guttural hum, like a distant engine running under the floorboards. My blood went cold. Unlike the kids in horror movies, I didn’t ignore it. I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and dropped to my knees, lifting the duvet. Dust bunnies stared back at me. Nothing. I rolled my eyes, annoyed at my own cowardice, and flopped back onto the bed. But then the hum shifted, and it came from the closet. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness within. My heart hammered. I got up, walked over, and pulled the door open.

There she stood—a little girl, no older than seven, in a faded yellow dress with white socks and scuffed black shoes. Her hair was a tangled mess of brown, and her face was pale, almost translucent under the dim lamp. She looked at me with eyes that had no whites—only deep, black pools. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my own feet. “Who are you?” I managed, my voice cracking. She tilted her head, a sickening crack accompanying the motion. “I used to live here,” she said, her voice soft and echoing as if from a long tunnel. “This was my room, too.”

I was frozen, my mind racing through every rational explanation—a prank, a squatter, a lost neighbor kid. But the way she stood, perfectly still, her bare arms hanging limp, told me this was nothing normal. “Why are you in my house?” I asked, my throat dry. She smiled, a grin that stretched too wide, showing teeth that were too perfect. “I’m waiting,” she said. “For you.” I shook my head. “This isn’t funny. Go home.” Her smile faded. “I have no home anymore. Only this house, and this room, and this bed. And I always get what I was promised.” She took a step closer, and the air grew cold, frosting my breath. “You will leave tomorrow morning. You will not come back.”

My skin crawled. “What are you talking about?” She looked at the window, where the moon cast a faint glow. “I was seven when I left this world. Now I need a companion. I’ve waited a hundred years, and this room has seen many children. They all left with me. You are next.” Her head tilted in the opposite direction, another crack. “I will return at dawn. Be ready.” And then she was gone, just a shimmer of air where she’d stood. The closet was empty, the door swinging slightly.

I didn’t sleep. I sat against the wall, hugging my knees, staring at the closet door, willing it to stay shut. At 5:47 AM, the first gray light filtered through the curtains. I heard a soft, childish giggle from inside the closet, then the sound of tiny footsteps walking across the floor—but nothing was there. My phone buzzed: my mother was on her way home. I gathered my things, my hands shaking, and fled to the living room. I never entered that room again.

Weeks passed, and I told no one. My mother thought I was just being a moody teenager. But every night, at 10:00 PM, I still hear that hum—a low, resonant hum that vibrates through the floor, under my new room, which is now the guest room at the end of the hall. The closet door is always slightly open. And I know, one day, the little girl will come for me, not in the morning, but on the seventh morning—when my mother is asleep, and I’m alone. I hear her singing now, a nursery rhyme I don’t recognize, as I write this from my laptop in the kitchen. The clock says 9:59 PM. I have one minute to decide if I’ll run—or wait to see if she’s real. My phone dies in my hand. The kitchen light flickers. And then I feel a cold, tiny hand on my shoulder.