The Spare Room

Last Tuesday, I was in the kitchen of my small flat, pouring boiling water into a chipped mug for some chamomile tea. My dog, a nervous border collie named Jasper, had been scratching at the back door, so I let him out into the small, fenced yard. As I waited for the tea to steep, I glanced out the window, not at anything in particular, just the usual view of the cul-de-sac where I lived.

Across the street was my aunt’s house, a two-story brick place with a wide porch and a single oak tree in the front yard. My aunt, Margaret, had passed away six months ago after a long battle with lung cancer. She’d been in and out of the hospital, and just when we thought she’d finally come home, she caught a severe case of influenza and died within a week. Now the house stood empty, with dusty furniture under white sheets.

That night, as I looked out, my eyes wandered to the spare room on the second floor, where Margaret used to keep her sewing machine and old photo albums. The curtains were drawn, but I thought I saw a flicker of movement, like a shadow shifting in the dim light. I squinted, and then the curtains began to sway, gently at first, then more violently, as if a strong wind was blowing through the room, but all the windows were closed.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. The curtains had stopped moving, but now I saw a figure standing in the middle of the room. It was indistinct, like a smudge on a photograph, but as I focused, the face sharpened. It was Margaret, her features pinched and pale, her hair thin and wispy, exactly as she’d looked before she died. She stared at me, her eyes hollow, and then she simply faded away.

At first, I felt a strange calm, as if I’d imagined it. I took my tea and sat on the sofa, trying to convince myself it was a trick of the light, or maybe a reflection from passing headlights. But the image of her face lingered, and a cold dread began to creep up my spine. I called my mother, who lives two towns over, and told her what I’d seen. She laughed and said, ‘You always did have an overactive imagination, Ronnie. It’s probably just stress. Aunt Margaret would never haunt you, she was too kind-hearted.’ I hung up, feeling embarrassed, but also more unsettled.

Just a few minutes ago, as I was washing my mug in the sink, the phone rang. It was a strange, shrill ring, unlike the usual tone. I picked it up, and the line was silent. I said hello three times, and then a mechanical voice, distorted and low, whispered, ‘I see you.’ I dropped the phone, my heart racing. The caller ID showed ‘Private Number.’

I’m shaking now, typing this out. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not gone, that she’s still in that house, watching me. And that phone call was a warning, not from a prankster, but from something that wants me to know it’s there, waiting. I’ve locked all the doors and windows, and Jasper is whining by the back door. I don’t know what to do. Should I go over there? Should I call someone? Or should I just wait, and hope that the face in the window was just my imagination playing tricks on a lonely night? But I know it wasn’t. Something is in that spare room, and it knows I saw it.