We Don’t Say Her Name in This House

There’s a rule in our house. We don’t say her name. We don’t talk about what happened. We don’t even admit she was ever real.

But that’s the problem with secrets. They don’t go away just because you lie about them.

I was eight years old when I first realized my mother was afraid of the dark.

Not the usual kind of fear—no. Hers was different. She’d turn on every light in the house, pacing from room to room, checking locks three or four times. She’d mutter to herself under her breath.

And there was one room she never, ever opened.

She called it the sewing room.

Which was a lie.

There wasn’t a spool of thread in there.

When I asked her why it stayed locked, she slapped my hand away.

“Don’t ever go near there,” she hissed. “Don’t even ask me about it.”

But kids are curious. And I was no exception.

I remember standing in the hallway at night, staring at that door. My heart would pound. I’d hear things. A creak. A whisper.

Once, I even heard crying.

My father wasn’t any better.

He’d just shake his head if I mentioned it.

“Drop it,” he’d say, voice flat. “You want to get her worked up again? Let it go.”

And that was that.

Our house felt like a coffin, nailed shut with unspoken words.

I wasn’t supposed to remember her.

But I did.

I remembered playing with someone in that room when I was very small. Someone with soft hair and a high, giggly laugh.

I remembered tea parties on the floor.

I remembered braiding her hair.

One day I asked my mother about her.

I didn’t even say her name. Just—

“Who did I used to play with in there?”

My mother dropped a glass on the floor.

It shattered.

She didn’t even pick up the pieces. She just stared at me like I’d sprouted horns.

“There was no one,” she said.

But she was lying.

I knew it.

I started asking questions at school.

The other kids didn’t know anything.

But old Mrs. Bennett across the street remembered.

“You’re the older one, aren’t you?” she said, squinting at me.

I blinked.

“No, I’m the only child.”

She laughed, dry as paper.

“That’s not what your mama told me when you were born.”

She wouldn’t say more.

But I went home shaking.

I felt like I was losing my mind.

I waited until my parents were asleep.

I snuck into the hallway with a hairpin.

My hands trembled so badly it took me nearly twenty minutes to pick the lock.

The door creaked open.

It smelled old. Dusty.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was the way the moonlight slanted through the window and lit up the floor.

The words carved into the wood.

HELP ME

They were ragged, frantic scratches.

Over and over.

HELP ME. HELP ME. HELP ME.

I wanted to run.

But my feet wouldn’t move.

I forced myself to look around.

There was an old mattress on the floor.

Stained.

I swallowed hard.

On the wall, in childish handwriting, was a name.

I felt my heart crack open when I read it.

Eliza.

My sister’s name.

I didn’t remember saying it in years.

But the moment I saw it, it came back to me.

Playing.

Laughing.

Crying.

And then screaming.

I ran back to my room.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, my mother saw my face and knew.

She didn’t say a word.

Just turned away, shaking.

My father wouldn’t look at me.

At dinner, no one spoke.

Except me.

I whispered: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My mother’s fork clattered onto her plate.

My father’s face went pale.

“She wasn’t right,” he said finally.

His voice cracked.

“She wasn’t normal. We did what we had to do.”

My mother slapped him.

Hard.

Then she screamed.

“She was a child!”

She fell out of her chair sobbing.

My father didn’t move.

He didn’t even wipe the blood from his lip.

I never felt safe in that house again.

Not because of ghosts.

Because of them.

We don’t talk about her.

We don’t say her name.

But I do.

When I’m alone, I say it out loud, over and over.

Eliza.

Eliza.

Eliza.

They want me to forget.

They want me to lie.

But I won’t.

I’m leaving this house tomorrow.

I’ll go somewhere they can’t follow.

Somewhere I can write down everything I remember.

If you’re reading this, it’s because I found the courage to tell the truth.

Because secrets rot in the dark.

Because no child should be buried in silence.

Because I want you to know she was here.

She was real.

She had a name.

Eliza.

And I remember her.

✅ Ending note:

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Horror

Family Secrets

Psychological Thriller

Trauma

Mystery

Forbidden Rooms

Dark Fiction

Emotional Writing

You Were Never Really Here