The Upstairs Playroom

The old farmhouse outside of Ipswich had been in Ellie’s family for generations, but it had been abandoned for years before she inherited it. The plan was simple: a weekend getaway with her closest friends to clean it up and maybe sell it. The peeling wallpaper and dusty floorboards were charming in a rustic way, but the house had a heavy feeling, like it was holding its breath. By midnight on Saturday, the six of them had gathered in the massive living room, equipped with sleeping bags and a pile of pizza boxes. They talked and laughed, but the laughter seemed to die quickly in the high ceilings, swallowed by the dark corners of the room.

At around 2 AM, they decided to turn in. The others chose spots on the floor, but Ellie, Lisa, and Marcus opted for the old double-deck bed that had been shoved against the far wall, its wooden frame groaning with every movement. Ellie took the top bunk, while Lisa and Marcus settled below. The last thing Ellie remembered before sleep was the faint, rhythmic creak of the house settling, and the smell of mothballs rising from the old mattress.

She was jolted awake by the unmistakable sound of children shrieking with laughter, their feet pounding across a wooden floor somewhere above. The noise was so vivid that Ellie sat up, certain a family with rowdy kids had somehow gotten in. She listened, her heart pounding, as the sounds continued: the thump of small feet, the high-pitched giggles, and the occasional bang like a door slamming shut. It was coming from the attic, or so she thought. She squinted into the darkness, but the room was pitch black, and even the faint glow from the streetlights outside had vanished, as if the windows had been covered.

She was about to call down to Lisa, to ask if the neighbors had kids who might have broken in, when the sound changed. The running and laughing stopped, replaced by a slow, deliberate dragging noise directly above the bed. It was as if something heavy was being pulled across the ceiling, scraping the plaster. Ellie froze, her mouth open, but no sound came out. She tried to reach down to shake Lisa, but her arm felt heavy, like it was submerged in water.

Then she heard a child’s voice, clear and close, right beside her ear, as if the child was standing on the ladder leading to the top bunk. The voice whispered, ‘I found you.’ The voice was not a child’s, though. It was deep and guttural, like an old man pretending to be a child. Ellie’s blood ran cold. She tried to scream, but her throat closed. The dragging sound above her started moving again, now slowly descending the wall, as if something was crawling down toward her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, the room was suddenly bathed in a sickly green light coming from the doorway.

She turned her head so slowly, it felt like her neck was made of stone. In the doorway stood a figure, small and hunched, dressed in a tattered nightgown, holding a candle that flickered with a green flame. The figure’s face was obscured, but it turned its head slightly, revealing a milky, unseeing eye. ‘You’re in my room,’ the figure said, its voice a dry whisper. ‘Get out.’

Ellie finally managed to scream, and the sound seemed to break the spell. The figure vanished, and the room was plunged back into darkness. She heard Lisa stir below, mumbling, ‘Ellie, what’s wrong?’ But Ellie couldn’t speak; she just pointed at the ceiling, where the dragging sound had started again, now from the other side of the room. Marcus switched on a flashlight, and the beam cut through the dark, but the room was empty. The door was shut, and the windows were still covered. In the corner, where the figure had stood, there was a small, child-sized handprint burned into the wallpaper, the paint blistered as if from heat.

They all moved to the floor, huddled together with their flashlights, listening to the silence. But the silence was short-lived. From the attic above, they heard a creak, and then a sound like a ball bouncing slowly, one step at a time, as if descending the stairs. The bouncing stopped at the top of the stairs, and then the doorknob to the living room began to turn, slowly, with a metallic click. Ellie grabbed Lisa’s hand, and they all watched in terror as the door creaked open, inch by inch, but nothing came through. Instead, the green light from earlier flickered in the hallway, and the whisper returned, seemingly from inside the room now: ‘Don’t you like to play?’

The night did not end until dawn. At first light, they packed their things and left the farmhouse without a word. As Ellie drove away, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw a small, pale face pressed against the upstairs window, watching them leave. She never went back. To this day, she doesn’t know what that thing was, but she refuses to sleep in any room with a bed that has a top bunk. And whenever she hears children playing in the distance, she freezes, listening, because she knows that sometimes, the sounds of play are not from children at all, but from something that never wants to stop playing.

Months later, a letter arrived at Ellie’s apartment, postmarked from Ipswich. Inside was a single photograph of the farmhouse, and on the back, written in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘The game isn’t over.’ The envelope smelled of mothballs and dust, and when she turned the photo over, she saw that the upstairs window was not empty—there was a pale, smeared face looking out, and it seemed to be smiling.