The Forgotten Room

Sarah Grayson had always dreamed of owning a house. After years of renting, she finally saved enough to buy a charming, old Victorian home on the outskirts of town. The house had character, with its high ceilings, creaky floors, and antique fixtures. It was exactly what she wanted—a project to restore, a place to call her own.

On her first day, as she explored every corner, she felt a strange sense of comfort. But there was something about the hallway on the second floor that gave her an odd feeling. The walls were lined with paintings, but one painting in particular caught her eye—a faded portrait of a woman with dark eyes that seemed to follow her every move.

As Sarah passed the portrait, she felt a cold chill run down her spine. It wasn’t just the painting that unsettled her—it was the feeling that there was something more behind the walls, something hidden.

Later that evening, while going through the boxes in her new bedroom, she stumbled upon an old key. The key was rusty, small, and had an intricate design.

Curious, she examined it. It didn’t look like it belonged to any of the doors she had seen.

The next day, as she wandered the house once more, she found something strange. In the back corner of the hallway, just behind the painting, there was a small door—one that blended in so well with the rest of the walls that she had almost missed it entirely.

The key she had found fit perfectly.

With a hesitant breath, Sarah turned the key and opened the door.

What she saw inside made her gasp.

It was a small room, no larger than a closet, filled with dust and cobwebs. But what truly shocked her was the wall. The entire wall was covered in old photographs, each one depicting the same woman from the painting. But the photos were more than just pictures—they seemed to have been taken at different points in time, decades apart. The woman’s expression remained the same, but her appearance subtly changed. She went from young to middle-aged, then older, her eyes still staring directly at the camera.

Sarah’s pulse quickened as she stepped closer to the wall. Something about the photos made her feel uneasy, like they were watching her. She could almost hear the soft echo of footsteps behind her.

Suddenly, a cold gust of wind blew through the room, making the door slam shut behind her.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She turned to the door, but it wouldn’t open. The handle wouldn’t budge.

Her heart raced as she turned back to the wall. Something felt wrong, something was off about the room.

And then she saw it.

In the corner of one of the photos, the woman’s face was scratched out. But the more Sarah looked, the more she realized it wasn’t just a scratch—it was a face.

A new face.

It was hers.

The realization hit her like a punch in the stomach.

Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the floor, unable to take her eyes off the photo. She could feel it—something was in the room with her, watching her, waiting for her to understand.

Sarah tried again to open the door, but it was still locked. She screamed for help, but no one was around to hear her. The air grew thick, and the shadows in the corners seemed to move. The woman’s face in the photographs had begun to change, slowly morphing into something else—something darker.

Her body trembled as she realized the horrifying truth.

The room had been waiting for her all along.

And the woman in the photo wasn’t just someone who had lived in the house.

She was her.

The next morning, when the neighbors came to check on Sarah, they found the house exactly as it had been the day before. The walls were still lined with paintings, the photos still hung on the wall of the hidden room.

But there was no sign of Sarah.

And the portrait—the one with the woman’s dark eyes—now had a new face.

It was hers.