The Forgotten Room

The Forgotten Room

When the Ahmed family moved into the old house at the edge of town, it felt like a fresh start. The paint was faded, the garden overrun with weeds, and the floors creaked with every step, but to Adeel, his wife Sara, and their two children, it was more than a house — it was a chance to rebuild.

On the first day, while exploring, the youngest child, Hania, noticed something strange in the upstairs hallway. Between two bedrooms, the wall seemed thicker than necessary. Knocking on it, the sound was hollow.

“There’s a door here,” she whispered, brushing her fingers along the faded wallpaper.

Adeel pressed his hand against the wall and noticed the faint outline of a frame. A locked door had been sealed, painted over, and hidden for decades.

Sara frowned. “Maybe it’s just storage.”

But that night, Hania dreamt. In the dream, she stood in a dimly lit room. The wallpaper was peeling, a single chair sat in the corner, and someone — a shadowy figure — whispered her name. She woke up crying.

The next night, their son Bilal dreamt too. He saw the same room but with more detail: a window with iron bars, a child’s toy box, and the sound of someone humming a lullaby.

By the third night, Sara and even Adeel began to share the dreams. Each time, the forgotten room revealed itself in sharper fragments. The smell of damp wood. A diary lying open on a desk. And always, the whisper of a voice they couldn’t quite recognize.

The family grew restless. Mornings became heavy with fatigue and unease. Breakfasts went untouched. Even laughter felt forced.

Finally, Adeel decided they had to break the lock and uncover the room. With a crowbar and hammer, he chipped away at the plaster. The hidden door groaned as if resisting him, but after hours of effort, it gave way.

The door creaked open.

Inside was the same room from their dreams. Dust hung thick in the air, and the stale smell of abandonment stung their throats. Against the wall sat a crib, long empty. A rocking chair faced the window. And on a wooden desk lay a diary, just as in the dreams.

Sara’s hands trembled as she picked it up. The cover was cracked leather, its pages yellowed with age. She opened it carefully, and the words inside chilled her.

“November 3rd, 1964. They took him away again. Said he was too loud, too wild. I locked the room to keep him safe, but they don’t understand. They say the voices are dangerous. But he’s only a child…”

Sara read aloud as her children huddled close. The entries revealed the story of a boy, locked away in that very room by parents who claimed they were protecting him from the world. But as the diary went on, the tone darkened. The mother’s handwriting grew frantic, describing how the boy began talking to people who weren’t there, how he screamed at night, how she no longer recognized him.

The final entry was only a few words:

“I hear him even when he’s gone. The room must never be opened.”

A sudden cold draft swept through the room. The rocking chair began to move, creaking slowly back and forth. Hania clutched her mother’s hand.

“Do you hear that?” Bilal whispered.

It was a lullaby. Soft at first, then growing louder — the same melody they had heard in their dreams.

Terrified, Adeel grabbed the diary and slammed the door shut. “We should seal it again,” he said firmly. “This place isn’t safe.”

But that night, the dreams grew worse. No longer was it just the room. Now, the shadow of a child appeared, standing in the corner, humming. His eyes, dark and endless, watched them silently.

Sara woke gasping, clutching her chest. She could still hear the humming, even after opening her eyes.

Days turned into weeks, and the family tried to carry on. But the house seemed alive. The locked room pulsed with presence. At night, footsteps echoed in the hallway though no one was there. Sometimes, when Hania played, her toys moved on their own, as if guided by invisible hands.

One evening, Bilal vanished for an hour. They found him standing in front of the sealed door, eyes glazed, whispering, “He just wants to play.”

That was the breaking point. The Ahmeds packed their belongings and left the house behind. They never returned.

But the neighbors often speak of it. At night, they say, a faint lullaby drifts from the upstairs window — the one with the iron bars. And if you dare to stand outside long enough, you might hear the soft creak of a rocking chair, rocking endlessly in the Forgotten Room.