The Locked Room

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Tara had been in the foster system long enough to know when something wasn’t right. The house seemed fine at first—Mrs. Calloway, sweet and soft-spoken, ran a tidy home. The other kids barely spoke, but Tara figured it was normal. Some places were quieter than others.

On the third night, while the other children slept, Tara heard the noise. A faint, scraping sound coming from the locked door at the end of the hallway. The one Mrs. Calloway had warned her about.

“Never open it,” she had said, her eyes sharp for the first time. “Just pretend it’s not there.”

But now, standing before the door, Tara couldn’t pretend. The scraping continued, like fingernails against wood. Then a whisper. Faint. Childlike.

“Help me…”

Tara’s heart raced, her hand trembling as it reached for the knob. The voice grew more desperate. Was there another kid locked inside? Forgotten?

She twisted the knob, feeling the latch release with a soft click. The door swung open.

The room was empty—almost. In the center stood a small, tattered crib, and within it, a shadowed figure rocked back and forth, facing away from her. A cold wind swept through the house, and the door slammed shut behind her.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

“Now you’ll stay with me.”