I thought I knew every corner of our old house. The squeaky floorboard by the stairs, the draft that slipped through the attic vent, even the exact way the front door stuck on humid days. This house had been my childhood, my cage, my comfort. Nothing about it ever changed.
Until the renovation.
It started with a simple plan: knock down the back wall of the hallway to expand the living room. The contractors moved in with their dust masks and hammers, my parents whispering nervously as if they’d made a mistake even hiring them.
I was home the day the hammer broke through.
At first, it was just plaster crumbling in pale chunks. Then the head of the hammer rang hollow against something behind it—like striking an empty chest. The sound was wrong, too deep. The foreman frowned, tapped the wall again, and shook his head.
“Seems like a false partition,” he muttered. “Someone built a wall over a space.”
My parents stiffened at once. My mother’s teacup rattled against its saucer. My father’s jaw tightened, color draining from his face.
“There’s nothing behind there,” he said sharply. “Just insulation.”
But the foreman ignored him. A few more swings, and the plaster collapsed inward. Dust filled the air.
And then I saw it.
Behind the wall, perfectly preserved, was a door.
The workers pried it open. The hinges groaned, stale air spilling out. And there—impossible, untouched, like it had been waiting—was a child’s bedroom.
Not an empty cavity. Not insulation. A fully furnished room.
The wallpaper was faded with cartoon rabbits. A tiny bed sat neatly made, the blanket tucked with care. On the desk, a half-finished puzzle waited, one piece missing. And on the chair hung a child’s sweater—small, blue, as if someone had only stepped out for a moment.
I froze. My breath turned shallow.
My parents didn’t move.
The foreman turned to my father. “You didn’t tell us there was a sealed room here.”
My father’s face went stone white. “Because there isn’t.”
I walked into the room, dust swirling around my shoes. The air smelled faintly of chalk and old wood polish, not the musty rot I expected. I trailed a finger along the desk, expecting grime. But the surface was clean.
Too clean.
The calendar on the wall was open to a month—June. The year was faded, but the date circled in red was today’s date.
My hand shook.
And then I noticed the milk glass. Sitting on the nightstand, half-full. The surface rippled faintly, as if someone had set it down only seconds before I arrived.
My voice trembled. “Whose room is this?”
Silence.
The workers exchanged uneasy glances. My mother pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. My father’s fists clenched at his sides.
He barked, louder than I’d ever heard him: “Close it back up.”
The foreman blinked. “Sir, this—”
“I said close it!”
The sound cracked through the air, startling even Milo, our golden retriever, who had padded in behind me. He barked once, ears pinned back, hackles raised at the little bed as if he expected it to move.
Nobody spoke after that.
That night, I lay in my room, staring at the ceiling. I could still smell the chalky air of that hidden space. My mind replayed the glass of milk, the circled calendar date.
It didn’t make sense.
Rooms don’t just appear.
But when I finally drifted into a restless sleep, I dreamed of standing at that tiny bed, tugging at the blanket. And beneath the covers wasn’t a pillow or a doll.
It was a child’s shape, breathing softly.
I woke with my throat raw from screaming.
