The Slamming of the Spare Room

I met up with my old friend Dana at her place, and she insisted I meet her cousin Ruth, who, like me, has a knack for sensing the unseen. I’d heard stories about Ruth’s gift, and my curiosity was piqued. We drove out to the countryside, to a farmhouse that had been in Ruth’s family for generations. The house was a sprawling, drafty Victorian, with peeling paint and creaking floorboards, surrounded by overgrown fields that seemed to swallow the light.

We settled in the kitchen, a large room with a worn wooden table and a stove that still used wood. Ruth poured us steaming mugs of coffee, and we began to talk. She told me about the spirits that lingered in the house: an old man named Ezra, who had died in the upstairs bedroom, and a young girl, perhaps his granddaughter, who had drowned in the pond out back. I listened, sipping my coffee, letting the atmosphere settle around me. Then Ruth leaned forward and asked, ‘So, what can you do? Can you see them or hear them?’

I paused, feeling a familiar prickle at the back of my neck. ‘I can feel them,’ I said, ‘and sometimes I see them or hear them. For instance, right now, there’s a presence standing in the doorway leading to the hall. It’s listening to us.’ I nodded toward the dark corridor that branched off from the kitchen. Ruth’s eyes widened. ‘That would be Ezra. He likes to eavesdrop.’

Just then, we heard a sound from down the hallway—a door slamming. It was a heavy, wooden door, and it banged shut with a resounding thud that shook the walls. Then it opened again, slowly, with a drawn-out creak, and slammed shut once more. Over and over, the rhythm was steady, as if driven by a mechanical force. The slamming went on for about forty seconds, relentless, and each bang seemed to vibrate through my chest. I looked at Ruth and Dana; their faces were pale, and Dana had dropped her spoon, which clattered on the floor.

‘It’s the spare room,’ Ruth whispered. ‘That door has been locked for years. No one can open it from the outside—the key is lost.’

My heart pounded as the slamming finally ceased. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ticking of a clock on the wall. I took a shaky breath and said, ‘I think something is trying to get out.’

Ruth shook her head. ‘That’s not Ezra’s way. He’s a gentle soul, just an old man wanting company. That slamming is something else, something that came with the girl.’

Dana, who had been silent, finally spoke. ‘What girl? You never mentioned a girl.’

‘The one who drowned,’ Ruth said. ‘Her name was Elsie. She’s been here a long time, but she’s not like Ezra. She’s angry.’

We exchanged uneasy glances. I felt a cold draft seep into the kitchen, even though the windows were closed. The air grew thick, and I could sense a malevolent presence, different from the curious one I’d felt earlier. It was watching us, and it wanted something.

Ruth stood up. ‘Let’s check the room.’ She grabbed a flashlight from a drawer, and we followed her down the dark hall. The corridor was lined with doors, all shut. At the end, the door to the spare room was slightly ajar, though it had been closed moments ago. Ruth pushed it open, revealing a dim room filled with old furniture draped in white sheets. The floor was dusty, but there were fresh footprints leading to the window, which was open, letting in the night air.

‘It’s been here,’ I whispered. ‘It came through the window.’

As we stood there, the door behind us slammed shut with incredible force, trapping us inside. We ran to it, but the handle wouldn’t turn. From the hallway, we heard a faint, childlike giggle, followed by the sound of running footsteps and more doors slamming, one after another, as if some unseen force was racing through the house, locking us in.

We were locked in the spare room for what felt like an eternity. The temperature dropped, and we saw our breath misting in the air. The window slammed shut on its own, and the dust swirled as if stirred by an invisible hand. A whisper echoed from the corners, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

Desperate, I remembered my gift—I could feel spirits, and sometimes I could communicate. I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind, hoping to reason with whatever was here. I sensed a young girl, furious and lonely, trapped in this house for decades, forgotten. I projected a feeling of empathy, of understanding, of wanting to help.

Slowly, the pressure in the room eased. The door creaked open, and we stumbled out into the hall, gasping for air. The slamming ceased, and a mournful wail echoed through the house before fading away.

We left that night, driving away from the farmhouse, never to return. Dana and I agreed to never speak of it again, but I know what I felt that night—a presence that wasn’t just a ghost, but something born of neglect and sorrow, desperate to be seen. And I know that somewhere, in that old house, the spare room is still waiting, its door unlocked, for the next soul who dares to listen.