The Dark Room

The Dark Room

No one in town dared go near the Harrow House after sunset. It stood crooked at the end of a forgotten lane, its shutters half-torn, its roof sagging like a tired breath. But what drew whispers wasn’t the rot or the decay — it was the single, sealed room in the attic. The dark room.

Evelyn had always been curious. She didn’t believe in ghost stories, not really. The tales of flickering lights, shadows moving behind closed doors, the occasional scream in the night — she dismissed them all. “Old houses creak,” she told herself. “Minds play tricks.”

So when she inherited the Harrow House from a great-aunt she’d never met, she took it as a blessing, not a warning.

It was late October when she moved in. The town was quiet, the kind of place that time forgets. The locals avoided her eyes, speaking to her only when necessary. When she asked about her great-aunt, they shifted uncomfortably, as if the question tasted bad in their mouths.

The house welcomed her like a beast waiting to pounce — groaning as she stepped inside, the air thick with dust and secrets. She explored every inch, save for the attic. The door at the top of the stairs was locked with a rusted bolt, solid and stubborn.

That night, she dreamed of scratching. Soft at first. Then desperate. Something — someone — behind that door. Whispering her name.

She woke with her pulse pounding and a taste of iron in her mouth.

The next day, she found the key in a teacup. A plain iron thing that hadn’t been there before. She hesitated, but only for a moment. Curiosity always did burn brighter than fear.

She waited until midnight. Some part of her believed that if the stories were true, then this was the hour to see them. The hour when lies died and truth crawled out.

The lock fought her. It shrieked as it turned, as if it knew it was betraying its purpose. The door opened an inch with a gust of stale air that smelled of damp wood and old sorrow.

She stepped inside.

The room was colder than the rest of the house, untouched by time or warmth. There were no windows. The wallpaper was torn and curling like dried skin. In the center stood a single chair, facing the wall. A faint hum, like static, filled the air.

Evelyn stepped closer. The shadows clung to her like oil, thick and breathing.

She reached out and turned the chair.

There was no one in it.

But the moment it turned, the door slammed shut.

She ran to it — pulled, twisted, screamed. Nothing. Then came the sound. A whisper behind her. A child's voice.

“Don’t turn around.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Why not?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“They see you if you do.”

She stood frozen. Her eyes welled, not with fear, but with pressure — like the room itself was pushing into her, pressing against her skin. She felt fingers — small, cold — brush her hair.

Then a knock. From inside the wall.

Another voice. Older. Harsher. “She turned the chair.”

The child whimpered.

Evelyn didn’t turn. She faced the door, heart a war drum.

“Let me out,” she begged. “Please…”

Silence.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open.

She bolted down the stairs, not daring to look back. Behind her, the door clicked shut, softly. Final.

Evelyn sealed the attic. She nailed it shut, painted over it, and never spoke of that night again.

But sometimes, when the house is quiet and the wind is still, she hears the chair turning on its own.

And she never — never — looks up.