The Weeping Siding

We were in the middle of a sweltering July, and my family was in the habit of moving. My parents had grown tired of our creaky Victorian on the outskirts of town, a place that seemed to hum with the memories of its previous occupants. The decision to move was made after a particularly bad night when the walls had whispered our names in the dark, and even our dog refused to sleep in the hallway. So, on a Saturday, armed with a list of potential houses, we drove out to the countryside, to a small village named Thornfield, known for its quiet and its old, sturdy homes.

The house we came to see was a red-brick Edwardian, set back from the road behind a wall of overgrown hedges. It had a wide porch and windows that seemed to stare out at the fields beyond. The owner, an elderly woman named Mrs. Holloway, received us with a polite but strained smile. While our parents discussed the price in the living room, my brother Alex and I were instructed to wait in the parlor. The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the heat. The air felt thick, as if it were holding its breath, and there was a sweet, cloying smell we couldn’t place. We sat on a stiff, velvet sofa, not wanting to touch anything more than necessary.

Alex, who was always restless, began to poke at the wainscoting near the fireplace. He discovered a loose panel and, with a curious glance at me, pried it open. Inside was a small, blackened space, and within it, a collection of child’s drawings, yellowed and brittle. They were all of a house, but not this house. It was a smaller, sadder building, with a single window that seemed to be crying. The crayon strokes were frantic, almost violent. Underneath the drawings, there was a scrap of fabric, a piece of faded blue ribbon, and a tiny, hand-carved wooden bird, its beak open as if in mid-song. Alex pocketed the bird, saying it looked cool, and we hastily put the panel back when we heard footsteps.

We were about to leave when we noticed a door in the corner of the parlor, one that seemed out of place, leading to the side of the house. It was locked, but the key was in the lock. On an impulse, Alex turned the key, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow, dark passage. The air that rushed out was cold and dusty. We stepped in, and the door clicked shut behind us, the latch engaging. We were plunged into darkness. We fumbled for a light switch and found a cord that pulled a single bare bulb, casting a weak glow.

The passage was unfinished, with rough brick walls and a dirt floor. It led to a small, empty room that must have been a pantry or a storage space. There, on the floor, lay a child’s shoe, a scuffed leather boot. And on the wall, scratched into the plaster, were the words: “She sings to the moon, but the moon does not answer.” We stared at it, and then we heard a sound from the other side of the wall—a faint, high-pitched humming, like a lullaby. It was coming from the direction of the parlor, but when we pressed our ears to the wall, it ceased. The silence that followed was heavier than before.

We heard our parents calling for us. We rushed back through the passage, but when we reached the door, it would not open. We pushed and rattled it until our hands were sore. Then, from the other side, we heard a soft, childish laugh. Alex started to cry, and I joined him, banging on the door until finally, after what seemed an eternity, our father pulled it open from the outside. He was pale. He said he had found the door ajar and had closed it, thinking we had gone outside. But the look in his eyes told me he had heard the same laugh.

We did not buy the house. Our parents, sensing our fear, made excuses and left. But as we drove away, I saw, through the rear window, a small face peering out from the parlor window—a girl with dark hair and a face devoid of emotion. She was holding the wooden bird, and she raised it to her lips as if to kiss it. Then she was gone.

Months later, we heard that the old woman had died, and the house was demolished to make way for a new development. But I never forgot that house, or the feeling that we had almost been trapped in a place that did not want us to leave. And sometimes, on still nights, I can still hear that lullaby, faint and distant, as if it is being sung just beyond my window, and I know the bird never found its song.