The Unfinished Room

When we moved from the damp heat of Miami to the dry, pine-scented air of northern Arizona, I thought we’d left all our troubles behind. The house was a sprawling ranch-style place, set on a few acres of scrubland, with a view of the distant red rocks. It was brand new, built by a contractor who’d never finished the last room—a windowless study at the end of the hall. The realtor mentioned it obliquely, saying the owner ‘had to leave suddenly,’ and the unfinished room was left as is, with exposed studs and a concrete floor. We didn’t think much of it. My parents were eager for a fresh start after my father’s job transfer, and I was just glad to have my own space again, away from my twin brother’s incessant chatter.

But from the first night, I felt it—a prickling at the back of my neck, as if someone were standing just behind me, watching. In the kitchen, I’d turn quickly, only to see the empty countertops. In my bedroom, I’d lie awake, listening to the house settle, and occasionally catch movement in my peripheral vision—a shadow that darted away when I tried to focus. My brother, Jake, dismissed it as my ‘overactive imagination,’ but I noticed he avoided the hallway that led to the unfinished room. Even our golden retriever, Sadie, refused to walk past that door, her hackles rising, a low whine in her throat.

One Saturday, with my parents out running errands, I decided to explore. The door was slightly ajar, which was strange—I remembered it being closed. I pushed it open, and a cold draft washed over me. The room was bare, with pale drywall patches on the studs, and in the center, a single sawhorse with a dusty circular saw blade on it. The floor was covered in a fine layer of grit, and in that grit, I noticed a pattern of footprints—small, as if a child’s—but leading in circles, around the sawhorse, then stopping abruptly at the wall. I knelt down, running my fingers over the impressions, and realized they were fresh.

That evening, I told my parents about the footprints. My mother frowned, saying it was probably a raccoon that got in through the crawl space. But I knew better. That night, before bed, I heard a faint sound from the hallway—a rhythmic scraping, like sandpaper on wood. I crept to my door and peered out. The hall was dark, but I could see a faint light coming from the half-open door of the unfinished room. I tiptoed closer, my heart hammering. Inside, the bare bulb, which I had seen switched off earlier, was flickering, casting dancing shadows on the walls. And there, in the middle of the floor, was a figure—a hunched over, man-shaped thing—moving its arm back and forth across the concrete, as if polishing it. It turned its head slowly toward me, and I saw its face—or rather, the absence of one. The face was a smooth, featureless oval, like a mannequin’s head, and it let out a dry whistle, like wind through a crack.

I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and hid under the covers, trembling. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I told my parents everything, but they laughed it off, saying I’d had a nightmare. But I saw the way my father’s brow furrowed when he went to check the unfinished room. He found the door locked from the inside, though we had no key. And the light was off, but the bulb was warm.

Over the next weeks, the activity intensified. I’d hear knocking on my wall at night, three knocks, always in a pattern. I’d find small objects moved—my hairbrush on the bathroom floor, my shoes lined up neatly outside my door. And the feeling of being watched grew unbearable. I started sleeping with a nightlight, but even that didn’t help. In the dark, I’d see two faint, luminous dots at the foot of my bed—like eyes, but they were cloudy, not reflective. They’d stare at me until I buried my head under the pillow, and they’d be gone by morning.

One night, I woke with the overwhelming urge to go to the unfinished room. It was as if a string was pulling me down the hall. The door was wide open, and the light was on. The room looked different—the walls were smoothly plastered but unpainted, and there was a brand new desk with a chair. On the desk lay a sketchbook, open to a page with a drawing of my face, but my eyes were hollow, and my mouth was wide open in a silent scream. Below the drawing, in neat script, were the words: ‘COME JOIN ME.’

I backed out, my hand over my mouth, and fled to the living room, where I curled up on the couch until dawn. When my parents woke, I showed them the sketchbook. But when we entered the room, the desk was gone, and the walls were back to studs. There was no sketchbook, only the sawhorse, and on it, a fresh coat of dust, except for a clear handprint in the center, as if someone had just placed their palm there.

We never told anyone else, but we knew we couldn’t stay. Within a month, we were packing. As the moving truck pulled away, I looked back at the house, and in the window of the unfinished room, I saw the silhouette of a figure, its face still blank, but now with arms raised, waving. I didn’t wave back. I just stared until the house disappeared behind a bend in the road.

But that wasn’t the end. In our new home, I found a box that I hadn’t packed. Inside was the sketchbook, still open to that page. And at the bottom of the page, scrawled in a shaky hand, were the words: ‘I’m still here. I’ll always be here.’ I threw the sketchbook into a dumpster, but that night, I heard the three knocks on my bedroom wall. And in the dim light, I saw two cloudy dots at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to fall asleep. I haven’t slept well since, and I know, wherever we go, it will follow. It’s in me now, and it can’t be left behind.