The Red Room

Sarah had always been drawn to the old Victorian house on Elm Street, with its peeling paint and overgrown garden. When the "For Rent" sign appeared in the front yard, she didn't hesitate. The rent was suspiciously low, but Sarah was a graduate student surviving on ramen and hope—she couldn't afford to be picky.

The landlord, a nervous man who wouldn't meet her eyes, handed over the keys with shaking fingers. "The upstairs bedroom," he muttered. "Previous tenant... well, just don't go in there after dark."

Sarah laughed it off. She'd heard every ghost story in the book.

The first few nights passed peacefully. Sarah set up her desk in the living room, her bed in the smaller downstairs bedroom. But curiosity is a persistent thing, and by the fourth day, she found herself climbing the creaking stairs to investigate the forbidden room.

The door stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of faded floral wallpaper and dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Sarah pushed it open.

The room was frozen in time—a vanity table with an ornate mirror, a four-poster bed with rotting curtains, and everywhere, the smell of roses turned to decay. On the vanity sat a photograph: a young woman with dark hair and pale skin, her eyes seeming to follow Sarah's movement.

That night, Sarah woke to the sound of sobbing from upstairs. Soft, heartbroken weeping that seemed to seep through the floorboards. She pulled her pillow over her head and tried to ignore it, but the crying continued until dawn.

The next evening, she heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate pacing across the room above. Back and forth, back and forth, like someone trapped in an endless loop of anguish.

By the third night of disturbances, Sarah's rational mind began to fray. She climbed the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. The door to the room hung open, and inside, she could swear she saw movement—a shadow passing in front of the mirror, a flutter of something white and ethereal.

"Hello?" she called out, feeling foolish. "Is someone there?"

The footsteps stopped. The house fell into a silence so complete it seemed to press against her eardrums. Then, slowly, she heard the creak of bedsprings, as if someone had just sat down.

Sarah's research the next day at the library revealed the truth. Emma Hartwell, twenty-three, had died in that room in 1923. A broken engagement, a bottle of laudanum, and a love letter that was never sent. The newspaper article mentioned that her eyes had turned an unusual shade of red in her final moments—a reaction to the poison, the coroner had explained.

But knowing the truth didn't stop the hauntings. If anything, they intensified. Sarah would catch glimpses of a figure in white nightgown standing at her bedroom window. She'd find the upstairs door open when she was certain she'd closed it. The photograph on the vanity began to move—not obviously, but Emma's eyes seemed to track her wherever she went in the room.

One night, driven by a mixture of terror and pity, Sarah climbed the stairs one final time. The room was bathed in moonlight, and there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Emma. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her skin was the color of old parchment. But it was her eyes that made Sarah's breath catch—they glowed like embers in the darkness, red as fresh blood.

"You're lonely," Sarah whispered, surprised by her own courage. "You've been alone for so long."

Emma's head turned slowly toward her, and Sarah saw the depth of sorrow in those crimson eyes. The ghost's mouth opened as if to speak, but only a sigh escaped—the sound of wind through autumn leaves.

Sarah took a step closer. "I understand. I'm lonely too."

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the divide between the living and the dead. Then Emma smiled—a sad, grateful expression that transformed her ethereal features. She raised one translucent hand, as if reaching out, before slowly fading like morning mist.

The house fell silent after that night. No more footsteps, no more crying. Sarah had given Emma what she needed most—acknowledgment, understanding, perhaps even friendship. The hauntings stopped, but Sarah found herself visiting the upstairs room regularly, sitting by the window, talking to the empty air about her day, her dreams, her fears.

Months later, Sarah's lease expired, and she prepared to move to a larger apartment across town. On her final night, she climbed the stairs one last time to say goodbye. The room felt different somehow—warmer, more peaceful. She placed her hand on the windowsill where she'd so often sat.

"Thank you," she whispered to the empty room. "For reminding me that we're never truly alone."

As she turned to leave, Sarah caught a glimpse of movement in the vanity mirror. For just an instant, she could have sworn she saw two figures reflected there—herself, and standing just behind her, a young woman with dark hair and kind eyes that glowed softly red in the darkness.

Sarah walked to the door, pausing at the threshold to look back one final time. The room appeared empty, bathed in silver moonlight, but she felt a presence there—watchful, benevolent, eternal.

And while she looked into the red room, something looked back at her.