The Other Room

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The ancient house on the hill became my home. I had no interest in the closed door at the end of the corridor. I didn't pay much attention to it because it was little and concealed by a tapestry. I didn't mind the house at first, even though it seemed odd and silent.

Days passed, and the door stayed there. But one evening, while I unpacked, something changed. A sudden urge to open the door hit me. It felt like it was calling me. I couldn’t explain why. When I tried to open it, I found it locked. The feeling didn’t stop. It grew.

I searched the house. No key. The key I had didn’t fit. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was behind that door. Something I had to find.

That night, the dreams started.

They were blurry at first—quick, strange flashes. I woke, confused. I saw a room. The room. It wasn't mine, but I was in it. Although I was unsure of who owned it, I knew it was important. I knew I had to find the key.

Each night, the dreams grew clearer. I saw more of the room. Old furniture. Peeling wallpaper. The air, heavy and stale. I felt like I’d been there before. But I couldn’t remember when or who I was.

I saw the room in my waking hours, too. Standing by the locked door, the hallway felt different. The walls seemed to close in. I felt something behind me, its presence too close.

I eventually lost my patience. I snatched up a crowbar and pried open the door. The room looked just like the one in my dreams: dark, small, with a broken window letting in little light. The air was thick, untouched for years. But it felt familiar. I had to find something in there.

I searched. The walls were covered with photos. Some faces I didn’t know. Some were mine, but wrong. Distorted. The smiles weren’t real. The photos showed things just out of view, just out of reach. I felt dizzy. The room spun.

Then, I saw a journal.

It rested on a desk in the corner. I opened it. The handwriting looked almost like mine, but I didn’t remember writing it. The journal told stories about a woman who looked like me. The more I read, the less sense it made. The events didn’t match anything I knew.

The last entry chilled me: "The room is not yours. It never was. The memories you carry are borrowed, and they will consume you."

I couldn’t stop thinking: someone had lived in that room before me. But who? Maybe it was me, but not like I know myself.

The dreams got worse. They blurred with reality. I couldn’t tell what was real. Was I losing my mind? Or was I someone else?

I searched more. In the attic, I found another door. Behind it, more journals, more photos. All of the same woman. The woman in the room.

None of them were me.

Still, I knew. I belonged in that room. It wasn’t mine, but it felt like it should be.

Now, I don’t know what’s real. Am I the woman in the journal? Or am I someone else? Maybe both. Maybe I’ve been here before, over and over, just waiting to remember.

The room wants me. I recall more the more I try to forget.

Maybe I’m not supposed to leave.

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