The Weeping Alcove

I took the job at the Little Acorns Daycare in early autumn, drawn by the promise of quiet work and the proximity to my flat. The building was a converted Victorian bathhouse, its high ceilings and tiled walls echoing with a history that predated the plastic toys and colorful murals. There were only seven children, all under five, and the staff was minimal: myself, a part-time assistant named Polly, and the manager, Mrs. Harlow, who seemed to exist in a state of perpetual distraction. The main hall, once the public bathing area, was now a playroom with a faded hopscotch grid painted on the floor. A narrow corridor led to the kitchen, a modern retrofit that smelled of bleach and stale bread. Beyond that, a door marked ‘Staff Only’ opened onto a short passage that ended at the storage room, which we used for extra supplies and old files. The original changing rooms had been converted into a small office and a staff toilet, but the old bathroom, with its rusted fixtures and a chipped porcelain bathtub, was repurposed as a dumping ground for stacked chairs and broken toys. The door we used to take the children into the small, walled garden was odd; it had a heavy velvet curtain that, when drawn back, revealed a massive stone sink, or perhaps a shallow bath, built into the wall. Its purpose was unclear, but it gave me a chill every time I passed it.

My first week was pleasant enough. The children were cheerful, and I busied myself with activities and snacks. But by the second week, a sense of unease settled over me. In the kitchen, while washing up after lunch, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, as if someone were watching me from the doorway. I turned sharply, expecting to see one of the toddlers, but the doorway was empty. I dismissed it as my imagination, but then I noticed the cupboard door, which I was certain I had closed, was now wide open. I stared at it, a knot forming in my stomach. I closed it firmly and returned to my task, but soon I heard a soft creak. I spun around to see a drawer sliding open on its own, just a few inches. I slammed it shut, my heart hammering. From then on, I became obsessed with tracking the state of every door and drawer in that kitchen. I would memorize their positions, and every time I entered, I would check to see if anything had moved. It was always something: a drawer ajar, a cabinet door slightly ajar, the pantry door swinging slowly as if pushed by an invisible hand.

One afternoon, I walked out of the kitchen to find Polly and Mrs. Harlow huddled together, whispering. They stopped when they saw me, but Polly gave me a knowing look. ‘We were just talking about the old days,’ she said, a little too cheerfully. ‘This place used to be a social club after it closed as a bathhouse, you know. There were dances and everything.’ Mrs. Harlow nodded, her eyes distant. ‘But it closed down rather suddenly. The story goes that a little girl drowned in that old tub,’ she gestured vaguely toward the curtained alcove. ‘She was here with her mother, who was a cleaner. The mother was distracted, and the child wandered off. They found her too late.’ I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I remembered the massive sink, and the way the curtain seemed to sway even when there was no breeze. Polly added, ‘Sometimes, when the children are playing, I hear the sound of a child crying. But when I check, they’re all fine.’ I had heard it too, a soft, hiccupping sob from behind the storage room door, but I had always attributed it to one of the kids having a moment.

As the weeks passed, the incidents grew more frequent and more disturbing. One day, I was alone in the main hall, tidying up, when I heard the sound of water running. I traced the noise to the curtained alcove. I pulled back the curtain, half-expecting to see a child playing in the sink, but the stone basin was dry. Yet the sound of dripping was unmistakable, coming from somewhere behind the wall. I pressed my ear to the cold tiles and heard a faint, rhythmic patter, like a tiny hand tapping. I jerked back as a wave of sadness washed over me, so intense that tears sprang to my eyes. I fled to the staff room, trying to compose myself.

The children began to act strangely too. They would stop mid-play and stare at a particular spot in the room, their faces vacant. They’d whisper to someone I couldn’t see. One boy, a quiet redhead named Thomas, pointed at the curtain one day and said, ‘The lady is crying again.’ When I asked him who, he just shrugged and said, ‘She’s sad because she lost her dolly.’ I didn’t want to ask any more questions.

The final straw came in my last week. I was mopping the kitchen floor after the children had left, when I heard a commotion from the storage room. I set the mop aside and walked down the narrow corridor. The door, which I knew was locked, was ajar. I pushed it open to find the room in disarray: boxes overturned, papers scattered, and in the corner, the old bathtub that had been in the bathroom was somehow there, though I knew we had never moved it. It was filled with dark, murky water, and floating on the surface was a small, tattered doll. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned to see the outline of a little girl in a wet dress, her hair plastered to her face. She was mouthing something, but no sound came out. Then she pointed to the tub. I looked, and in the water, I saw a glimpse of a woman’s face, contorted in grief. I stumbled backward and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I told Mrs. Harlow I was quitting, that I couldn’t take it anymore. She just nodded, as if she had expected it. ‘She wants her dolly,’ she said quietly. ‘But we can’t give it to her. It’s not allowed.’

I never went back to Little Acorns. It closed three weeks later, and I heard the building was sold and converted into a private home. But sometimes, at night, I hear the sound of a child crying, soft and mournful, from somewhere in my flat. And I remember the way Thomas pointed at the curtain, and the way the water in that tub looked so deep, so endless. I don’t know if she ever found her dolly, but I know she’s still there, waiting. And I know that whenever I close my eyes, I see that weeping alcove, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s watching me, from the other side.