The Room with No Windows

When Farhan moved into the old house his uncle had left him, he thought of it as a blessing. The house stood at the edge of town, its walls cracked but sturdy, its wooden floors creaking under each step. It needed repairs, but it felt like a place where he could finally be alone and focus on his writing. Everyone in town warned him about the house, muttering that no one had stayed there long. He laughed it off. Old people and their ghost stories, he thought.

For a week, things were fine. He unpacked slowly, cleaned what he could, and even began writing again. But one evening, while exploring the upper floor, he noticed something strange. The hallway seemed shorter than it should have been. From the outside, the house had five windows on the top floor, but inside he counted only four rooms. Curiosity nagged at him. Where was the missing space?

The next morning, he searched carefully. Tapping along the wall, he heard a hollow sound near the end of the hallway. Hidden behind peeling wallpaper was a narrow door, almost invisible. He pried it open, and dust billowed into his face. Behind it lay a small room—windowless, airless, the walls damp with mildew. A single chair sat in the center, facing the wall. He felt an immediate chill, though the sun was shining outside.

Something about the room unsettled him, yet he convinced himself it was just neglect. He dragged the chair out and shut the door, determined to forget about it. But that night, as he tried to sleep, he heard a sound upstairs. A scrape, like wood against wood. Then, faintly, the sound of the chair moving.

Farhan’s skin prickled. He told himself it was rats, the wind, anything but what it sounded like. Still, he couldn’t sleep. The next day, he checked the room again. The chair was back inside, exactly where it had been before. His stomach twisted. He knew he had moved it, but here it was again, as if it had never left.

Each night after, the noises grew louder. Sometimes he heard footsteps in the hall, slow and deliberate. Sometimes he heard whispers through the floorboards. Always, though, there was the scrape of that chair against the walls of the hidden room. He began to dread nightfall.

On the seventh night, he woke to the sound of his own name. A whisper, low and drawn-out: “Farhan…” His throat tightened. He forced himself up, lit his lantern, and crept upstairs. The door to the hidden room stood ajar. He remembered closing it. His hand shook as he pushed it open.

Inside, the chair was not empty. A figure sat hunched upon it, its back to him. Its hair hung long and stringy, its shoulders sharp beneath a thin, wet garment. The smell of rot filled the air. His lantern flickered, shadows crawling along the walls. For a moment he could not move, could not breathe.

“Farhan…” The voice came again, but the figure did not turn. Slowly, its head twisted, far too far, until he could see its face over its shoulder. Its eyes were black voids, its mouth stretched in a grin that was too wide, too human. The chair scraped forward, inching toward him, though the figure did not rise.

Farhan stumbled back, the lantern crashing from his hands. Darkness swallowed the room. He ran, heart hammering, down the stairs and out into the night. He did not stop until he reached the road, gasping, drenched in sweat.

The next day, villagers found the house abandoned again. Only the hidden door upstairs stood wide open. Inside the room, the chair still sat facing the wall. And if you listened closely in the silence, you could hear it scrape, as if someone unseen was rocking gently back and forth.