The house at the edge of the woods stood as a weathered monument—not quite forgotten, but never spoken of with warmth. Ivy strangled its brickwork; windows stared blankly like the eyes of a long-dead portrait. They said it belonged to the Holloways once. No one was sure what had become of them after the fire.
Ella had never believed in ghosts. She was a photographer drawn to places that whispered history. The rusted swing set in the backyard creaked in the wind, an ambient note that echoed in the cool autumn air. She adjusted her camera and stepped inside, boots pressing into the dust-thick carpet.
The air was stale—something unbidden clung beneath the smell of decay: a sweetness, faint and sour—like rotting fruit. Walls, once cream, were stained with shadow, marked by unseen hands or the slow crawl of time. The house breathed in fragments: the creak of floorboards shifting, the dull thud of an old radiator settling.
Ella’s steps echoed softly through the hallway. She moved methodically, eyes catching threads of light piercing cracks in the boarded-up windows. The silence was deep but brittle, as if the house held its breath in waiting.
She found the staircase. It groaned under her weight, a low moan that rippled through the planks. Upstairs, the corridor stretched like a narrow void. Doors stood like sentinels, some hanging askew, others sealed tight.
At the end, she found it: the quiet room.
Compared to the rest of the house, it was oddly unblemished. The wallpaper, faded but intact, was a delicate floral pattern. The window was barred but unbroken; a single ray of afternoon sun split the dust motes like floating spirits. The room was empty except for an old rocking chair, gently swinging, though no breeze stirred.
Ella’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped closer, noting the grooves in the wood worn smooth by time or touch. The chair creaked—once, twice—softly, as if rocked by invisible hands.
She raised her camera and framed a shot. In the lens, the room seemed to deepen, shadows pooling like ink. She heard it then—soft whispers, thread-thin, barely there. Words she couldn’t quite catch, like the rustling of silk against skin.
A cold prickling ran down her spine. The air thickened, viscous as syrup. The rocking chair’s motion quickened—slower now, hesitant, as if resisting the pull.
Ella’s fingers trembled, lowering the camera. The whispers resolved into a single phrase, fragile and intimate: *“Don’t forget me.”*
Her head spun with questions—who? why?—but before she could answer, the door slammed shut behind her.
The room plunged into silence.
Heart hammering, she tested the doorknob. Locked. She pounded the wood, calling out, voice raw and thin. The silence persisted, a suffocating seal.
The sunlight dimmed; shadows thickened. The floral wallpaper seemed to blossom with strange stains—paler than rust, spreading like a slow bloom.
Ella sank to the floor, breath ragged, eyes fixed on the chair. It had stilled, but she felt its presence nearer, a weight pressing from the far corner.
Her camera lay beside her. Reluctantly, she raised it again, switching to playback. Her fingers hovered over the images—the room… herself… the chair… but on the last shot, a figure appeared.
A girl.
Not a ghostly blur or smoky outline, but a solid presence. Pale face framed by dark hair, eyes wide and empty, lips parted mid-whisper. She sat in the rocking chair, hands clenched tight on the arms. A necklace glinted at her throat—a faded locket, twisted into a heart.
Ella’s skin bristled. She zoomed in, hands trembling. The girl’s gaze locked with hers through the screen—a silent scream, pleading. A cold realization clawed up Ella’s spine.
“You’re her,” she whispered.
The house had swallowed a child, kept her secret in that quiet room, her existence folding into dust and shadow.
Time lost meaning. The room grew colder still, like a tomb chilled by winter’s breath. Ella reached out, trembling, fingertips brushing the locket in the photo.
A sudden pulse—a heartbeat—not her own. The air snapped tight.
In the corner, the shadows curled, shaping into the child’s form, now solid, now fading—as if the house exhaled her back to life and death in a single breath.
“She waits,” the voice whispered again, “waiting for someone to remember.”
Tears spilled down Ella’s cheeks, mingling with sweat, with dust. She knew the story now—the fire was no accident, the family lost to grief and silence. This was where the girl had been left behind, abandoned in the quiet.
Ella stood, the chair ceasing its motion, the room resuming its silence.
She touched the locket on her neck—the one she hadn’t taken off since her grandmother died. Something warm thrummed against her skin.
Outside, the forest stood watch in patient quietude. Ella stepped out of the house, carrying the weight of remembered silence.
But deep inside, the quiet room waited, an empty cradle rocking slow against the dark.
