Uncle Arthur’s journal became a dark obsession. I read it in secret, tucked away in a sunlit corner of the parlor, as if the light could protect me from its contents. His handwriting grew more erratic with each entry, the sentences fragmented, filled with a building terror that mirrored my own.
She calls him ‘Thomas.’ She thinks I am Thomas. She waits for him. She sings. A lullaby. It comes from the nursery on the second floor. A room that has been locked for decades.
The nursery. I hadn’t even found a nursery. The second floor consisted of three bedrooms and a long, windowless hallway lined with closets. Leo, armed with a toolbox and unwavering skepticism, humored me as I searched for a hidden room. “It’s an old house, Alex. Drafts and odd noises come with the territory. That journal is just the ramblings of a lonely, sick old man.”
But I couldn’t let it go. The whispers were more frequent now, not just at night. A soft, feminine murmur that seemed to emanate from the very plaster. And the smell of lilies—cloying and rotten—would appear in a room and then vanish just as quickly. It was while moving a heavy wardrobe in the main hallway that I found it. The back of the wardrobe was a false panel. With a hard push, it swung inward, revealing a narrow, dark space behind the wall. My flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a tiny, forgotten room.
This was the nursery. It was a time capsule of sorrow. A small, dusty crib stood against one wall. A rocking chair, its seat worn smooth, faced a soot-stained fireplace. A porcelain doll with a cracked face lay in a tangle of rags in the corner. The air was frigid and thick with dust. On the wall near the crib, someone had drawn on the plaster with charcoal. Crude, childlike sketches of stick figures. One was tall, labeled “Papa.” Another was small, labeled “Me.” And between them, a woman with a sweeping dress, her face a smudged, dark oval. Scrawled beneath it, in a shaky hand, were the words: Mama is sad.
A wave of profound sadness washed over me, so potent it felt like a physical weight. This wasn’t the anger I had felt before. This was grief, a deep, enduring sorrow that had seeped into the walls. That night, the activity changed. The heavy pacing was gone. Instead, I heard it again—the soft, melodic sound of a woman singing a lullaby. It was faint, drifting from the direction of the hidden nursery. It was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard.
I woke Leo. “Do you hear that?” I whispered.
He listened, his face pale in the moonlight. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a soft, shuddering sob echoed from the hallway, followed by the distinct, gentle creak of the rocking chair in the nursery. Leo’s eyes widened. He heard it too. The shield of his skepticism finally cracked. We weren’t just living in a strange house. We were living with a memory, a tragic echo that was becoming increasingly, undeniably present.
