The Violet Room

I was seventeen when I learned that some doors should never be opened, even in dreams. That summer, my family rented a cramped cabin in the backwoods of Maine, far from the buzz of the city. The cabin was a sagging thing, with a porch that groaned underfoot and a stove that clicked all night. My room was at the end of a narrow hall, its walls covered in peeling floral wallpaper, the kind my grandmother would have loved. I remember falling asleep to the drone of crickets and the smell of pine, my body sinking into a lumpy mattress that had seen better decades.

I woke to a different ceiling. It was a pale, water-stained white, with cracks like riverbeds branching from the corners. I was not in my room. The bed beneath me was lower, softer, and covered in a quilt of faded violets, the pattern almost worn away. The room was small, the walls painted a sickly tan, and the only window was to my right, open just a crack, letting in a cold draft that smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like rotting flowers. The curtains were thin and white, billowing gently as if someone were breathing behind them. I tried to sit up, but my limbs were heavy, as if filled with sand. I panicked, but my throat wouldn’t make a sound. I could only lie there, my heart thudding, my eyes darting around the unfamiliar space.

I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself I was still dreaming, that I would wake up in my own bed with the smell of coffee from the kitchen. I counted to ten, then twenty, and when I opened my eyes, the room had not changed. But now there were other presences. On the floor around the bed, arranged in a semicircle, sat five small figures. They were infants, but not like any I had seen. Their skin was the color of wet ash, mottled with dark patches, and their limbs were twisted, their fingers like tiny claws. They were naked, and their bellies were distended, their ribs visible through the thin, gray flesh. Their eyes were not eyes at all, but pits of black, like voids, and they were all staring at me. My breath caught. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I wanted to scream, to run, but my body refused to move.

The infants began to crawl toward me, their movements jerky, like marionettes with tangled strings. They made no sound, not even the rustle of their bodies on the floor. They climbed onto the bed, their weight barely a whisper, and they surrounded me, their cold, dry hands touching my arms, my legs, my face. Their mouths were open, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth, and they seemed to be sniffing me, their heads tilting as if they were tasting the air. One of them, the closest, leaned in, its black eyes inches from mine, and I could see something moving in those pits, like tiny worms. I tried to close my eyes, but my lids wouldn’t obey. I was forced to watch as they pressed closer, their mouths opening wider, as if to devour me.

Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they stopped. The one closest to me tilted its head back, and a sound escaped its lips, a thin, reedy moan, like a wind through a cracked window. The others joined in, and the sound rose in pitch, a chorus of wails that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The curtains began to flap violently, and the window slammed shut, making me jump. The room grew darker, the light outside fading as if a storm had rolled in. The infants began to fade, their bodies becoming translucent, and the one closest to me reached out, its hand passing through my cheek, leaving a chill that felt like frost. And then they were gone, leaving me alone on the violet quilt, shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I forced myself to move, my limbs finally obeying, and I rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud. I scrambled to my feet, my eyes scanning the room. It was empty, just a bed, a dresser, and a door that stood ajar. I ran to the door and pulled it open, revealing a hallway that was longer and darker than it should have been, stretching into blackness. I didn’t care. I ran down it, my bare feet slapping on cold wood, my heart pounding, until I reached another door, which was locked. I jiggled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I turned back, but the hallway behind me was gone, replaced by a wall of the same tan paint, with a single crack running down the center. I pressed my ear to the door, and I heard something on the other side: the sound of babies crying, muffled, as if from a great distance. The sound was faint, but it grew louder, and I felt a cold breath on my neck.

I whirled around, but there was nothing. The hallway was now lit by a dim yellow light, and I could see the door to my room at the end, still ajar. I ran back, stumbled inside, and slammed the door shut. I sat against it, panting, my eyes fixed on the bed. The violet quilt was smooth, undisturbed, as if no one had ever lain there. The window was open again, the curtains still, and the room was bright with late afternoon sun. I felt a wave of nausea, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I was back in my own bed, in the cabin, with the smell of pine and the sound of birds. I lay there for a long time, unable to move, the memory of those five faces burned into my mind. I never spoke of it to anyone. But every night since, I check the corners of my room, and I leave the lights on. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint, reedy moan, and I know that the violet room is still there, waiting, and those five infants are still sitting around the bed, staring at the empty space where I once was.