The Slate Room

I never believed in haunted houses. New ones, especially. But my grandmother’s place in rural Maine was barely three years old, and something was wrong with it. I’d come up for the winter break, mostly to help with my grandfather’s recovery after his hip surgery. He was staying at the hospital in Bangor, and Grandma was with him most days, leaving me to house-sit.

I chose the downstairs bedroom because it was close to the alarm system and the back door. The room was painted a muted gray, with a queen bed and a small TV. The first night, I settled in with a bowl of chili and a worn-out DVD of ‘The Goonies.’ I must have drifted off around ten, but at 2:17 AM, I was jolted awake by a sound. Not a creak or a groan—more like a wet, slapping noise, followed by a low, rhythmic thud.

I sat up, heart pounding. The room was dark except for the TV’s static hiss. The sound seemed to come from the closet. I reached for the lamp, but the switch clicked uselessly. The thudding continued, slow and deliberate, like something heavy being dragged across a floor above. I switched on my phone’s flashlight, aiming it at the closet door. It was slightly ajar, though I was sure I’d closed it. The thudding stopped, and a faint, cold draft seeped out.

I told myself it was the house settling, the wind, anything. But the next morning, I found the closet door wide open, and on the floor lay a single slate tile, the kind used in roofing. It was black, wet, and smelled of brine. I picked it up, and it was ice cold. My grandmother, when she called to check in, laughed it off. ‘That old house? Just drafty, dear. Probably brought in some leaves.’

The pattern continued. Every night, I’d wake at 2:17, hearing that thumping. And every morning, another slate tile would appear, always in a different spot—on the windowsill, under the bed, once even on the pillow beside me. They were always wet, always cold. I started sleeping with a hammer under my pillow.

On the fifth night, I decided I couldn’t take it. I got out of bed, my heart hammering, and crept toward the closet. The thudding grew louder as I approached, and I could see a faint, greenish light emanating from the cracks. I grabbed the knob and yanked the door open. Inside, the closet had transformed. It was no longer a shallow, shelved space. Instead, a narrow, dark corridor stretched downward, with steps made of wet, black slate. The air was thick with the smell of decay and ocean. And from the depths, I heard a whisper, not in my ears but inside my skull: ‘You left the door open.’

I slammed the closet shut and stumbled back, tripping over the TV cord. The light flickered, and when it steadied, the closet door was closed, and I saw a footprint—a bare, wet footprint—on the beige carpet. I didn’t sleep that night. I called my grandmother, but she dismissed my fears, telling me to get some rest.

The next day, I inspected the closet. It was normal, with shelves and boxes. But at the back, behind my grandfather’s flannel shirts, I found a small, odd-shaped door, about a foot square. It was locked with a rusty padlock. I pried it open with a crowbar, revealing a shallow recess. Inside was a child’s slate board, the kind used in the 19th century for writing practice. On it, scratched in a shaky hand, were the words: ‘Your turn.’

That night, I was exhausted, but I couldn’t risk drifts. I moved all the furniture in the room against the closet door, piling chairs and a heavy dresser. I lay in bed, wide awake, counting the minutes. At 2:17, the thumping began, louder now, and the furniture shook. I heard the closet door groan, then a crash as it burst open, scattering the barricade like toys. The corridor was back, and it was no longer dark. A faint, green light illuminated steps leading down, and I could see a figure at the bottom—a small, hunched shape, facing away. It turned its head slowly, and I saw its face: it was my own, but older, gaunt, and covered in dark, wet patches.

I screamed and ran. I didn’t stop until I was in the kitchen, clutching a butcher knife. The house was silent. I checked the bedroom—everything was normal. The closet was closed. But on the kitchen counter, I found a slip of paper. In the same shaky hand, it read: ‘You have 7 days.’

The next morning, I drove to the hospital to see my grandfather. He was pale but cheerful. As I sat beside him, he looked at me with sudden seriousness. ‘You’ve been in the slate room,’ he said. I stared, speechless. He continued, ‘I know. I built that house. The closet was an old well, covered up. A little girl drowned in it, back in the 1890s. She never left. She likes visitors.’

I returned to the house that evening, but I didn’t go near the bedroom. I slept on the couch, doors locked. At 2:17, the thumping started, and this time, it was above me, on the ceiling. I looked up, and there she was—a small, pale girl in a wet nightgown, standing on the ceiling, her hair dripping water onto the hardwood. She pointed a dripping finger at me and smiled. ‘You left the door open,’ she said.

I ran out into the cold Maine night, calling my grandmother, who finally believed me. She told me that the girl was my great-great-aunt, who had drowned in the well that was now the closet. ‘We’ve known,’ she said, ‘but we thought if we built the house over the well, she’d finally rest. She hasn’t. She wants company.’

But it was too late for me to leave. The next day, I found the slate tile on the kitchen table, with a new message scratched on it: ‘Your time is up tonight.’ I spent the day in the barn, looking for anything to help. In an old tool chest, I found a tin whistle and a stack of old letters. The letters were from a boy who had once been her friend, and he wrote about a verse she used to sing. I read the words: ‘Button up, lock the door, the rain will come, and we’ll be no more.’

I sang that verse at 2:17 as I stood in the doorway of the bedroom, holding the whistle. The girl appeared, her face now streaked with tears. I blew the whistle, and it made a haunting, hollow note. She tilted her head, and I said, ‘You want to play? Let me tell you a story.’ And I told her about the boy, about the letters, about the friend she had lost. As I spoke, she began to fade, her form dissolving like morning mist. When I finished, she was gone. The closet door, which had been standing open, swung shut on its own. The house was silent.

I never saw her again. I left the house, but I kept the slate board. I still dream of her sometimes, but now she’s smiling, waving from a distant shore. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint whistle, and I know she’s finally at peace.