The Last Room

Clara had always been a practical person, rational to a fault. That’s why she had resisted for so long when her husband, Tom, had suggested moving to the old house in the countryside. It was too remote, too rundown. But after the sudden death of his father, Tom insisted they take the opportunity to "start fresh," away from the city and the weight of their grief.

The house, a sprawling Victorian mansion, sat at the edge of a forest, its windows dark and seemingly lifeless. Clara hated it the moment they arrived. There was something off about the place, something oppressive that weighed on her chest every time she stepped inside.

Still, she tried to make the best of it. Tom had grown up in this house, and now it was theirs. Slowly, she unpacked, arranging things just so. But every time she ventured upstairs, she was drawn to a room at the very end of the hallway—a room Tom had warned her never to enter.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Clara,” Tom had said, his voice distant, as though lost in thought. “But there are things in there. Things that... should stay where they are.”

Clara was used to Tom’s oddities. He had always been secretive, particularly when it came to his family’s past. Still, she respected his wishes—at least for a while.

But curiosity gnawed at her. It was inevitable. She had always wondered what was so special about the last room at the end of the hall, the one that remained locked.

One rainy evening, while Tom was out of town on business, Clara found herself standing before that door.
She hadn’t planned to go inside. Not really. But when her hand brushed against the cold brass handle, something in her mind shifted. The door was always locked, but this time, it opened with ease. She stepped inside.

The room was small, barely furnished, but its atmosphere was thick with an unsettling presence. The air felt heavier in here, colder. A small, antique rocking chair sat in the corner, facing the wall. The wallpaper was peeling, faded to the color of ash. But what drew Clara’s attention was the old-fashioned crib in the center of the room, its white paint chipped and worn.

Suddenly, Clara’s breath caught in her throat.

There was something in the crib.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, but now, her eyes locked on the shape—something dark and curled, as though lying in wait. She couldn’t make out any details, just the vague impression of something small, twisted, and unnatural.

Against her better judgment, Clara walked closer. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She reached out a trembling hand and lifted the edge of the worn blanket. What she saw made her recoil in horror.

The baby wasn’t a baby at all. It was a doll, a grotesque thing, its face contorted in a permanent scream. The eyes—black and glassy—seemed to follow her every move.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her with a deafening bang. Clara spun around, her pulse racing. She grabbed for the doorknob, but it was stuck, refusing to turn. Panic set in.

“Tom?” she called, her voice trembling.

There was no answer.

The room began to feel smaller, the walls pressing in on her. The air was thick with something she couldn’t name—something ancient. Clara’s mind raced. The doll—the crib—something was wrong, horribly wrong, about all of it.

Then she heard it.

A soft, guttural whisper, coming from the shadows. It was too quiet to make out at first, but as the seconds ticked by, it became clearer, more distinct.

“Stay with me…”

Her body went rigid. She knew that voice. It was Tom’s.

The door finally creaked open.
Clara stumbled out of the room, gasping for air. She turned to look back, but the hallway was empty. The door to the room was gone. In its place, just a blank wall.

Tom had come home just moments later. He was pale, his expression blank. He didn’t ask what she’d seen. He didn’t need to.

“You shouldn’t have gone in there,” he whispered. “Now you’ll never leave.”

As the days passed, Clara began to notice the changes. Her reflection in the mirror grew more and more distant, like she was slowly fading from existence. Every night, she’d hear whispers from the hallway—faint, indistinguishable murmurs that seemed to come from the last room.

Then, one night, as Clara passed by the door that no longer existed, she felt the unmistakable pressure of a hand on her shoulder.

“Stay with me…” the voice murmured again, this time from right behind her.

She turned, but there was no one there.

That was when Clara knew the truth. The house was alive, feeding on her fear, trapping her in its walls. It had claimed Tom, and now it wanted her. The last room was a prison, a place where souls went to disappear.

And Clara never left.