The Forgotten Room: Her Name Was Margaret (part 2 )

I thought the candles and prayer had settled the room.

For a while, things were calm. I stayed in the house for several more days, sorting through boxes, cleaning, preparing it for sale. The mirror stayed quiet, the rocking chair unmoved. I even convinced myself I’d imagined it all.

But on the seventh night, I woke up at exactly 3:03 a.m.

At first, it was silence that pulled me from sleep—the kind of silence so thick it buzzes in your ears. Then came the sound I feared most.

Creeeeak... creeeak...

The chair.

Again.

I got up, heart pounding, and walked barefoot down the hallway. The floor was cold. The air had that same heavy pressure I remembered, like something pressing against your skin from the inside.

The door to the room was open.

I hadn’t left it that way.

Inside, the chair rocked gently. No one sat in it—at least not visibly. But the mirror on the vanity showed something else entirely. A girl. Pale. Long dark hair covering her face. She sat in the chair in the reflection, even though the chair was empty.

She turned her head toward me.

I whispered, “Margaret?”

The rocking stopped.

The mirror began to fog, as though someone breathed on it from within. Slowly, words appeared on the cracked glass:

“LISTEN.”

My knees buckled slightly, but I stayed rooted to the floor. “What do you want?” I asked, voice barely a breath.

The mirror cleared again. Then new words formed.

“FIND MY DIARY.”

The next morning, I began searching the house. Every attic box, every drawer, every floorboard I could pry up. It was two days before I found it—in the crawlspace beneath the stairs, sealed in a tin box wrapped in oilcloth.

A small brown leather journal. Inside, a name:

Margaret Wexler — 1923

The diary was heartbreaking.

Margaret had indeed been locked away by her parents. They called her sick, unstable, because she spoke to people who weren’t there, knew things no child should. But her writing wasn’t unhinged. It was thoughtful, emotional, even poetic.

“They fear what they do not understand. I only wanted to help. The voices aren’t evil—they’re lost, like me.”

“Mother says I am cursed. I think I am simply different.”

“They are going to seal the room. I will not see the sun again.”

“If anyone ever finds this, I am not angry. I only want to be remembered. I only want someone to say my name and know I lived.”

That night, I returned to the sewing room one last time. I brought the diary and read it aloud. Every page.

The mirror didn’t crack further. It cleared.

And then, for the first time, the girl appeared fully—not just in the mirror.

She stood beside the vanity, no longer shadowed, no longer hiding. Her eyes were deep pools of sorrow and gratitude. She smiled faintly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You saw me.”

I nodded, tears in my eyes. “You deserved better.”

She vanished like mist dissolving in morning sun.

The house feels lighter now. Warmer. The room at the end of the hall no longer creaks, no longer chills. I left the diary on the vanity, lit one final candle, and closed the door gently.

I’m keeping the house now. Not to live in, not yet—but to honor the stories buried in its walls. To make sure no one else is forgotten.

And sometimes, when the wind blows just right, I swear I hear a girl humming.

At peace.

Remembered.

see the next part 3

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