The Sunken Nursery

The October wind carried the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth through the hollowed-out streets of Blackwood. My friends and I had been trick-or-treating for an hour, our plastic pumpkins heavy with candy, when we reached the end of Culver Lane. There, half-hidden behind a sagging fence, stood the old Hartley house. It had been abandoned for decades, ever since the fire that claimed the family, or so the stories went. The windows were dark, the porch groaned, and the front door—always chained and boarded—now hung open, a black maw in the dusk.

Emma, who always knew the local legends, whispered, ‘They say the kids still play up there, the ones who died.’ I scoffed, but something cold tickled my spine. We crept up the cracked path, and I pushed the door fully open. It creaked inward, revealing a hallway thick with dust and the smell of old smoke. My friends hung back, their costumes suddenly flimsy.

‘I’ll just check it out, tell any kids to get out,’ I said, trying to sound brave. I stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind me with a soft click. My heart lurched. I turned, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Through the grimy window, I saw my friends’ faces, eyes wide, mouths moving silently. Then they backed away, disappearing into the evening.

A sound from upstairs—a giggle, high and childish—made me freeze. Then footsteps, pattering across the floor above. I swallowed and started up the stairs, my flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. The laughter grew louder, mixing with the thud of running feet. I reached the top and saw a sliver of green light spilling from under a door at the end of the hall.

I pushed that door open, and the green light washed over me. The room was empty, bare floorboards, peeling wallpaper. But the light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, pulsing like a heartbeat. The laughter stopped. I spun around, but the door had shut silently. I rushed to it, twisted the knob—locked.

Panic rose. I ran to the window, the only other exit. Below, the yard was empty, my friends gone. As I pressed my face to the cold glass, I felt a presence behind me, a cold draft on my neck. I whirled—there, in the corner, stood a tall, impossibly thin figure, darker than the shadows around it, its head nearly touching the ceiling. It had no face, just a void that seemed to drink the green light.

I stumbled back, my hand hitting the window latch. The lock clicked open. The figure took a step forward, and the floorboards groaned. I fumbled with the window, threw it open, and scrambled out onto the roof. Below, the drop to the garden was dizzying. But the figure was at the window now, reaching out with long, pale fingers. I let go, tumbling through the air, and landed hard on the soft earth.

I lay there, gasping, staring up at the window. The figure was gone. The green light flickered out. The front door was still open. I scrambled to my feet and ran, not stopping until I reached the main road, my breath ragged, my costume torn. I never told my friends what I saw—they still think I chickened out and went home. But sometimes, at night, I hear a giggle from the next room, and the floorboards creak outside my door. And I know the sunken nursery is still waiting, its green light flickering, for the next curious child to wander in.