The Secret Room

Anonymous

November/ December 2024

Charlie had always heard stories about the old house at the end of Maple Street. Kids at school whispered about ghosts, hidden treasures, and strange lights that flickered in the attic window. But to him, it was just another lonely, creaky old house—until the day he accidentally wandered in.

It was a misty autumn afternoon when Charlie chased his runaway soccer ball across the neighborhood. It rolled down the hill, bouncing up Maple Street, finally disappearing through the half-open gate of the old house. He hesitated, glancing up at the dark windows, but his dad would not be thrilled if he lost another ball. So, with a deep breath, he slipped through the gate and stepped onto the porch.

Inside, the air felt heavy, filled with the scent of dust and forgotten memories. The walls were covered with peeling wallpaper, and shadows stretched long across the wooden floors. As Charlie walked deeper into the house, he spotted the ball at the end of a dim hallway. Just as he bent to pick it up, he heard a faint whisper.

“Come closer,” it said.

His heart pounded, but curiosity was stronger than fear. He followed the sound to a door at the end of the hall, one he hadn’t noticed before. The door was small, almost hidden by shadows, and as he turned the brass handle, it opened with a soft creak.

The room inside was unlike any other in the house. It was warm, filled with soft candlelight and shelves packed with books, knickknacks, and old photographs. On a table sat a half-finished puzzle, and a faint smell of lavender hung in the air. But what drew Charlie’s attention was the figure sitting by the window: a girl about his age, with hair as dark as midnight and eyes that glinted with curiosity.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He blinked, bewildered. “You…know me?”

“Not yet,” she replied mysteriously. “But I think we’ll be good friends.”

They spent hours talking, sharing stories of adventures, dreams, and the kinds of secrets only kids understand. She told him of faraway lands hidden in maps, of treasure buried in the garden, of magical beings that could only be seen in moonlight.

As the evening wore on, he knew he had to leave. But when he turned back to the room to say goodbye, it was empty. No girl, no table, no books—just a dusty, forgotten space.

Years passed, and Charlie grew up. He moved away from Maple Street, forgetting about the mysterious house and the girl with midnight hair. But every so often, on misty autumn nights, he would look out his window and swear he saw a flicker of light in a dark attic window, waiting just for him.