The Unsettling Room

Wendy Harris stepped into her new room, her gaze lingering over the faded floral wallpaper that seemed to be clinging on by pure will. She sighed, tossing her bag onto the bed — her bed now — as she looked around. "Alright, Wendy, fresh start," she muttered to herself. Moving to Dalton — an out-of-the-way town where the biggest event seemed to be the weekly bingo nights — had been a leap of faith. Wendy needed a change, and this creaky old house her aunt left her felt as good a place as any to find one. The room was small, just four walls with a single window overlooking a neglected garden. That first night, tired from unpacking, Wendy barely registered the moon casting strange shadows across the walls. Her first week in Dalton was uneventful. Mornings were spent throwing open windows, airing out the old dust, followed by strolls around the town, nodding at a few friendly strangers brave enough to venture a greeting. But it was the second night when things got... odd. A loud thump jerked Wendy awake. The room was lit by the eerie glow of the moon, revealing a stark change. The floral wallpaper had shifted, the faded flowers now absent, replaced by peeled paint and exposed bricks. Okay, she mused sleepily, weird dream. Every night after, the room evolved. At first, it was subtle — the floral wallpaper was nowhere to be seen, the room taking on an old, raw appearance. But as days went on, the transformations were unmistakable: an added window here, a change in furniture there, as though it couldn't decide in which era it belonged. Wendy's frustration grew. Was she sleepwalking? Making changes in the middle of the night and forgetting the next morning? Driven by curiosity and a touch of fear, she began to investigate. The town librarian, Mrs. Sanders, revealed more than Wendy bargained for. "The Malcolm family lived there ages ago. Strange lot," the elderly woman whispered, leaning over her desk. "Their daughter, Millie, vanished one summer. Never found. The family left shortly after." Wendy pieced together bits of info, her heart pounding. Back at the house, the room felt heavier, as if aware of her prying. One night, armed with a flashlight and unwavering determination, Wendy explored further. She peeled away the remaining wallpaper, revealing markings etched into the walls — initials intertwined with dates, some scores scratched deeper, almost angrily. Flashlight in hand, Wendy caught a glimpse of a journal wedged between two floorboards. It detailed whimsically written entries not just about the room's shifts, but of voices, echoes of the laughter, or cries that seemed to be woven into the walls. Suddenly, it clicked. The house held on to memories — of Millie, her dreams, her fears. The room wasn't changing; it was showing her — unveiling its past in a way it hadn't been able to before. Wendy felt a pulse from the room, a presence seeking closure. She decided it was time to let the room—and Millie—go. That night, she spoke aloud, recounting Millie's life based on the pages she'd read. Her words tenderly filling the silence, as she acknowledged Millie and the ripple her disappearance caused. The room trembled. Vibrations underfoot made her tingle as if the room was releasing decades-old sighs. The air lightened around her, and Wendy felt an inexplicable peace. By morning, the room was calm, the walls unassuming again. Wendy sat at her small window, looking out. Fresh start, indeed. She swore she heard a quiet giggle as the wind whisked through. The house felt like hers now, but it was shared — a transient arrangement with its past.