My Son Keeps Asking About the Room We Never Had

He knows what happened there, even thogh it doesn’t exist

By Anees Ul Ameen

My son learned the layout of our house faster than I expected.

Within weeks of moving in, he knew where the creaky step was on the stairs, which cupboard held the cereal, and how to avoid the loose tile near the bathroom. I thought it was cute—proof that children adapt faster than adults.

Then one night, while I was tucking him into bed, he asked, “Why don’t you like the other room?”

I froze. “What other room?”

“The one at the end of the hallway,” he said casually. “The one you keep closed.”

There was no room at the end of the hallway.

Our house was small. Simple. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a narrow hallway that ended in a linen closet. I laughed it off, kissed his forehead, and told him he was dreaming.

He didn’t smile back.

“You used to go in there,” he said. “Before.”

The next day, I checked the hallway.

The closet door was closed, just like always. I opened it anyway. Towels. Cleaning supplies. Nothing unusual.

Still, an uneasy feeling settled in my chest.

That night, my son stood in the hallway long after bedtime, staring at the closet door.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked gently.

He turned slowly. “The boy,” he said. “He says he misses you.”

I crouched in front of him, forcing calm into my voice. “There’s no boy here.”

He frowned. “Not anymore.”

The questions became more specific.

“Why did you lock him in?”

“Why did you stop opening the door?”

“Why do you pretend he wasn’t real?”

Each question landed like a blow. I never answered them properly. I couldn’t. I told myself children absorb things from television, from overheard conversations, from dreams that feel too real.

But there were no conversations like that in our home.

And then he said something I couldn’t explain.

“He doesn’t like being forgotten,” my son whispered one night. “He says that’s why he’s still here.”

I asked him what the boy looked like.

He thought for a moment. “Like me,” he said. “But quieter.”

I started losing sleep.

I began checking old documents, old photos, anything that could explain why my son believed there had once been another room. Another child.

The house records showed nothing unusual. No renovations. No sealed rooms.

But the dreams started coming back.

Dreams I hadn’t had in years.

A locked door.

A small voice calling my name.

My hand on a doorknob I refused to turn.

I woke up shaking, my heart racing, my mouth tasting of guilt.

One evening, my son dragged a chair down the hallway.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“He says you’re too short now,” he replied. “He says you won’t reach the handle unless you stand higher.”

I took the chair from him and pushed it back into the kitchen.

“There is no door,” I said sharply. “Do you understand?”

He stared at me with a look far too old for his face. “You said that last time too.”

That night, I heard the sound.

Scratching.

Not from the walls. Not from under the floor.

From the hallway.

I stepped out of my bedroom slowly, my pulse roaring in my ears. The closet door at the end of the hall was trembling—just slightly, like something on the other side was leaning against it.

I stood there, frozen, memories flooding back with terrifying clarity.

The room wasn’t always a closet.

It had been a bedroom once.

And it hadn’t been empty.

I don’t remember how long I stood there. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for the scratching to stop.

The next morning, my son was quiet.

“He’s angry,” he said over breakfast. “He says you promised.”

“I was young,” I whispered, barely realizing I’d spoken out loud.

My son looked at me carefully. “You said that then too.”

The final warning came the following night.

“He says if you don’t open the door,” my son said softly, “he’ll come out another way.”

I knelt in front of him, tears blurring my vision. “Please,” I said. “Don’t listen to him.”

“He says you don’t get to decide anymore.”

The hallway felt narrower. Darker.

The closet door creaked.

I don’t know what I expected when I opened it.

Another room.

Another child.

Forgiveness.

Instead, I found darkness pressing forward, heavy with breath and memory.

My son stood behind me, holding my hand.

“He just wants to be seen again,” he said.

And I finally understood.

Some rooms don’t disappear.

They wait.

— Written by Anees Ul Ameen

Author’s Note:

This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen.