The Forgotten Room

The house had been silent for twenty years.

​Not the peaceful kind of silence that falls after a long day. The heavy kind. The kind that presses against your chest and makes you feel like something unseen is watching from the shadows.

​People in the village called it The Dead House.

​No birds landed on its rotting shingles. No stray dogs barked near its overgrown garden. Even the local children, usually brave enough to dare each other into mischief, would cross the street when passing by, their laughter dying in their throats.

​But I didn’t believe in haunted houses. I didn’t believe in ghosts, curses, or village superstitions.

​Not until I inherited it.

​When the lawyer handed me the old, rusted iron key, his hand trembled visibly. The office air felt suddenly cold.

​“This was your grandfather’s,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “The house is now yours. But listen to me carefully.”

​I noticed his eyes avoiding mine, fixing instead on the papers scattered on his desk.

​“There is… one room on the second floor,” he added, swallowing hard. “It has been sealed since the day you were born. Your grandfather gave strict instructions. That room must never be opened.”

​A forgotten room.

​I laughed it off then. I wish I hadn’t.

​The house stood at the edge of the village, half swallowed by time and ivy. The front gate screamed in protest when I pushed it open. Inside, the air was stagnant, smelling of dust, wet rot, and something metallic—like old copper.

​Every step I took on the hardwood floor echoed like a gunshot.

​The furniture was covered in white sheets, standing like sleeping ghosts in the dim light. Family portraits stared at me from yellowed walls—faces I almost recognized, yet they felt like strangers.

​Almost.

​Then I saw it.

​At the very end of the long, narrow upper hallway.

​A door unlike the others.

​It wasn't made of the same brown oak as the rest of the house. It was painted black. Pitch black, as if the wood absorbed the light around it.

​There was no handle. No keyhole. No hinges.

​Just a strange, jagged symbol carved deep into the wood, filled with what looked like dried wax. And beneath it, scratched frantically in my grandfather’s handwriting:

​“Do not open. For the sake of your soul, do not open.”

​That night, I couldn’t sleep. The silence of the house was deafening.

​At exactly 3:17 a.m., the knocking began.

​Soft.

Rhythmic.

Deliberate.

​It wasn't coming from the front door. It was coming from upstairs. From behind the black door.

​Knock. Knock. Knock.

​I sat up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I told myself it was the pipes. The house settling. The wind.

​But then, a whisper followed. It slid under the cracks of the floorboards, chilling the room.

​“I remember you…”

​My blood froze. This was no wind.

​The next morning, driven by a mix of fear and obsession, I searched the house for answers. I needed to know what my grandfather was hiding.

​In the dusty attic, buried inside an old military trunk, I found it: my grandfather’s leather-bound journal. The pages were brittle, crumbling at the edges.

​I skipped to the last few entries. His handwriting, usually neat, had become erratic and jagged.

​October 14th, 1998:

“The boy is too much. He feels too deeply. He remembers things no child should. I have to protect him from himself. I have to lock it away.”

​October 16th, 1998:

“The separation is complete. He is happy now. He smiles like a normal child. But the part I removed… it is angry. It screams at night. I have locked it in the room. God forgive me.”

​The last entry read:

“The room is awake again. It waits for his return. And soon… it will open itself.”

​My hands shook violently as I turned the page.

There was no next page.

Only a dark, red handprint smeared across the paper. Small. The size of a child's hand.

​That night, the knocks returned.

​Louder. Angrier.

​This time, something scratched the door from the inside. Long, desperate clawing sounds, like an animal trying to escape a cage.

​Skreee... Skreee...

​I grabbed a heavy flashlight and walked up the stairs, my legs feeling like lead. I stood in front of the black door. The air around it was freezing, my breath forming mist.

​“Who’s there?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

​Silence.

​Then… the whisper returned, right against the wood, inches from my face.

​“You left me here.”

​Suddenly, memories I never lived crashed into my mind. A flood of images: A child crying in the dark. The sound of chains rattling. A locked room. And my grandfather standing outside… turning away, tears in his eyes, locking the door.

​The symbol on the door began to glow a faint, sickly purple. The walls trembled, shaking dust from the ceiling.

​And slowly… impossibly… the black wood began to dissolve. The door didn't swing open; it simply faded away like smoke.

​Inside was not darkness. Inside was a small, grey room.

​And in the center sat a small boy.

​He was barefoot. His clothes were tattered rags covered in twenty years of dust. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest.

​When he looked up, I stopped breathing.

​His eyes were black as ink. No whites, just an endless void.

But his face...

​He had the same scar on his chin that I did. He had the same messy hair.

He looked exactly like me.

​“I waited,” he said calmly. His voice wasn't a child's voice. It was ancient. “You went out into the world. You grew up. You forgot. I stayed.”

​The truth hit me like a blade to the gut.

​This was no ghost. This was no demon.

​This was me.

​The part of me my grandfather had locked away to "save" me. The trauma. The fear. The frightened child who witnessed something terrible years ago—memories I had repressed so deeply they had taken a physical form.

​“You cannot leave,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “You are dangerous.”

​The boy smiled, a sad, broken smile.

​“I am not dangerous,” he said softly. “I am just hurt. And you cannot be whole without me.”

​He stood up and walked toward me. I wanted to run, but I couldn't move. He reached out his small, cold hand and placed it over my heart.

​“I already have left,” he whispered.

​The walls cracked. The room began to collapse into light.

​And suddenly—

​I was standing alone in the hallway.

​The black door was gone.

The cold was gone.

​Only a normal, wooden door remained. Unlocked. Slightly ajar. Inside was just an empty storage closet, filled with old toys and dust.

​The house felt lighter. The oppressive weight that had crushed my chest was gone.

​The air was warmer.

​And for the first time since arriving… I heard a bird singing from the roof.

​Now I live here quietly. The village still fears the house, but they don't know the truth.

​But sometimes… at exactly 3:17 a.m.

​I still hear footsteps.

Not heavy, dragging footsteps. But light, running ones.

​They walk freely through the house.

No longer trapped behind a black door.

No longer forgotten.

​I am finally whole.