The Forgotten Room

The board shouldn't have hit the wall. Michael was only trying to maneuver it through the narrow hallway past the stairs, shoulders hunched, the length of pine balanced awkwardly under one arm. Sara had told him not to start tonight. The two of them had been unpacking boxes all week, but he couldn't resist. Renovations had been on his mind since they signed the lease. An old apartment in a historic part of Boston meant hidden quirks and stubborn woodwork. What Michael really hoped for, though, was some unknown or forgotten treasure hidden behind plaster and brick.

The impact was accidental: the board's end clipped the plaster, rattling against the brick beneath. A sharp crack split the quiet of the evening, followed by a dull thud. One of the bricks dropped straight into the cavity behind the wall.

Michael froze.

Sara's voice called from the living room. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he answered too quickly. He walked back to the new hole in the wall, directly under the stairs. He crouched, peering into the hole where the brick had fallen. Darkness. He couldn't see more than a shadow of depth. He slipped two fingers in but touched only cool air. An odd smell came from the hole. Almost as if he could smell something being cooked.

Sara appeared behind him, arms folded, hair pulled into a messy knot. "You’re already breaking the place? We’ve lived here three days."

"Babe, it wasn’t on purpose." His curiosity was already taking root. He ran his hand along the gap, brushing away plaster dust. The brick had been loose. Why? He thought. He reached for the flashlight they kept near the door.

"Michael," Sara said, sharply now, "don’t start tearing into walls, just call the landlord."

"Just a peek," he murmured, ignoring her.

Brick by brick, he widened the gap. The work was clumsy, mortar flaking in chunks. Sara protested at each scrape of his hammer, but he pressed on, driven less by stubbornness than a gnawing fascination. What was behind there? Why was it sealed? He was determined to find out.

When the hole was finally wide enough, he dropped onto his stomach, pressing his face near the jagged edge. Dust stung his nose. He aimed the flashlight beam through the opening.

The light fell across a room that seemed larger than a closet. Four walls, no windows, no doors. Michael sat back in the hallway, cross-legged, staring at the stairs. He started examining the staircase. Why did the room under the stairs seem to be larger than it should be? He stood up, walked to the base of the stairs, and stood right in front. Placing his hands on his hips, he tried to mentally visualize what he saw under the stairs in relation to what he was seeing now. Leaning slightly, he peered around the wall to the left of the stairwell. The wall on that side simply stopped at the width of the stairs. Past that was the living room.

"Well, that doesn't make sense." he muttered, more to himself than to Sara.

"What doesn't make sense, Michael?" Sara replied, assuming he was actually listening to her.

He went back to the hole in the wall and crouched back down, with the flashlight in his hand. He peered back into the hole. What he could see with the light was a small bed sitting against the far wall, its frame iron, rusted, a thin mattress sagging in the middle. Beside it, a narrow table, its legs choked with cobwebs. The rest of the space was bare, except for the walls. The problem was that the room shouldn't have been as big as it was, considering its location under the stairs.

Words, or something like words, covered the walls in the room. Jagged lines scrawled across the brick, curling and intersecting in patterns that made no sense to him. Some stretched floor to ceiling. Others clustered in frantic tangles. He squinted, tilting the beam. The markings seemed more etched than written.

Then the light caught something odd.

At the bed's corner, a chain ran from the leg down into shadow. He followed it with the beam.

The chain ended at a skeletal hand.

Michael jerked backward so hard he struck his head against the brick wall. He dropped the flashlight.

"Michael?" Sara's voice cracked.

"There’s..." His throat closed, then opened again in a rush. "There’s a body. I think. Chained to the bed."

Her face blanched. "What? That's it. We’re calling the police. Right..."

He interrupted. "Wait." He held up a hand. "It could be a prank. People used to do that, right? Fake skeletons in walls. I read about it once."

"Fake?" Sara's voice rose. "You think someone built a room, chained a skeleton inside, and bricked it up as a joke?"

"I just need to take a closer look. If it’s fake, I don’t want to call the cops and look like an idiot."

Her mouth opened, then closed in exasperation. "Michael, don't."

But he was already starting to crawl into the hole.

The moment his shoulders slipped inside, he felt it: a wash of coolness, as though air long trapped had been released. With it, a foul smell. Not rot. It smelled like someone was cooking something, but where was the smell coming from in the room?

Behind him, Sara's voice quavered. "Please come out."

"I’ll be quick," he promised. His own words rang hollow. He edged farther into the hole, pushing the flashlight ahead of him. The beam trembled with the shake of his hands.

The writing on the walls seemed to shimmer under the light, as if it resisted being fixed into focus. His breath echoed strangely, too loud for the size of the space.

Then another sound joined it.

A whisper. Not English. Not any language he recognized. The syllables rolled low, guttural, almost submerged, like voices carried through water.

He froze. "Sara. Do you hear that?"

"All I hear is you crawling into a hole that's going to cost us more money!" she snapped, frustration edging her tone. "Please, Michael. Get out."

But the whisper continued, growing stronger the farther he slid in.

And then something struck him from behind.

A blunt force smashed the back of his head, sending stars exploding across his vision. His body went limp. The last thing he heard was Sara's voice, shrill and desperate, calling his name.

He woke chained to the bed.

His wrists were bound in iron cuffs, the chain heavy across his legs. The mattress sagged beneath him, and the same rusted frame he had glimpsed earlier was now the bed he was lying on.

The hole in the wall was gone. In its place, the small room Michael thought he was crawling in stretched into a larger room. Larger. Brighter from sunlight beaming in from the windows. But where had the windows come from? He could hear voices, clearer now, though still in that strange, unrecognizable tongue.

The voices grew louder.

Two figures entered from a door that appeared to lead outside.

Michael's breath caught in his chest. They were animals, or something like animals. They stood upright, and the shapes of their bodies made them appear to be men, but their heads were not human. Snouts, fur, and ears pointed like those of animals. Their clothes were rough but seemed to be tailored. Their pants and shirts made them look like workers from another century. Each carried a tool. The large one had a hammer, while the other one held a shovel.

They spoke rapidly to one another, gesturing toward him. Their words clashed and overlapped, a cacophony of sound that rattled inside his skull.

Michael pressed back against the wall, the chains biting into his skin. "Where am I? Who are you? What are you?" His voice cracked. "Sara? Where’s my wife?"

The creatures only grew agitated with his questions. Their tones rising as they crept closer to him. The one with the hammer slammed it against the table, making him flinch.

Another figure entered the room from the door.

This one wore a long gown, its fabric flowing to the floor. Around its neck was a necklace of crude metal and colored glass. In its clawed hand, a bundle of grass smoldered, thin smoke curling into the air. The creature began to chant, its voice deep and rhythmic, circling the room and pressing the smoke into the corners.

It stopped at the wall beside Michael, dipped a claw into the smoke, and began writing.

Symbols unfurled across the brick, glowing faintly before darkening into permanence.

"No…" Michael whispered. He realized the writing was what he saw when he first started crawling into the room. His heart slammed in his chest. He pulled at the chains, skin scraping raw. "Stop. Please. Just tell me where my wife is."

The creatures ignored him.

One of the creatures started piling bricks near the bed where Michael lay. It looked to Michael like it was making a wall.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Faint, muffled, but familiar. Sara.

He twisted, searching. Her voice grew louder, urgent, calling his name. And then, her image shimmered into being at the floor near the wall he creature was building. Her torso emerged first, as though she were crawling through the air itself. A flashlight beam swept wildly in her hand.

"Sara!" he screamed. Relief and horror warred in his chest.

The creatures erupted in a frenzy. They shouted, pointing their tools at her, their feet stamping in panic. But she didn't react. Her eyes locked only on him.

"Michael!" she gasped, crawling closer.

"No!" He thrashed against the chains, the cuffs digging deeper. "Back out! Go back! Don't come in!"

Only then did the truth begin to sink in. The hole wasn't just a hidden room; it was a passage. The hole in his old apartment's wall wasn't just a hidden room — it was a portal. A portal to someplace, somewhere different.

His focus shifted back to Sara. He had to stop her.

She frowned, confused, still moving closer.

"Please!" His voice broke. "Don't! For once, please listen to me!"

The chanting creature lunged forward, smoldering grass flaring. It let out a guttural cry that split the air. Sara froze, startled, then scrambled backward. The flashlight was jerking wildly in her hand. Her image blurred, thinned, and then vanished.

Michael screamed, his voice raw.

The creature turned, met his eyes, then dropped to its knees. Slowly, it crawled toward the spot where Sara had been, lowering itself to the ground.

"No!" Michael bellowed, shaking the bed frame. "Stay away from her!"

The creature didn't stop. It pressed its clawed hand into the air and disappeared.

The room erupted. The other two creatures shouted at once, pointing at Michael as they raised their tools. The one with the hammer approached, eyes glinting with something between fury and triumph.

Michael begged, words tumbling from his mouth. "Please, I don't understand! Just let me go!"

The hammer swung.

Pain burst across his skull. Darkness followed.

When he woke again, silence reigned.

The wall had been sealed. The glowing symbols gone. No sunlight, no creatures. Just four walls of brick, dust, and the weight of chains.

Michael lay staring at the ceiling, numb. His throat ached from shouting, his wrists raw. His thoughts spiraled.

Where was Sara?

He turned his head toward the wall, now solid once more. Tears welled and spilled, hot against his skin.

"What is this room?" he whispered.

The words echoed back at him, soft and mocking, swallowed by the silence.

Again, louder: "What is this room?" he started shouting.

His voice cracked. He shouted until his throat tore, until his body shook, until the words became only sobs.

The room didn't answer.

It never would.