The Forgotten Playroom

Sarah had always been a curious child. The type who, from a young age, could never resist the lure of a closed door or the mystery of an unopened box. Her parents often found her with her nose buried in some old book or tinkering with forgotten trinkets. So, when they moved into the old country house, it was only natural that she would explore every nook and cranny of their new home.

The house was large, much larger than their previous one, with far more rooms than they needed. Each one was filled with the echoes of its long history, the air heavy with the scent of dust and age. But it wasn't until Sarah ventured into the attic that she found something truly strange.

It was a rainy afternoon when she discovered the playroom. Sarah had been rummaging through old trunks and furniture draped in white sheets, when she noticed a faint draft coming from the far corner of the attic. Following it, she found an old wardrobe that seemed out of place, as though it had been hastily moved. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she pushed it aside, revealing a small, cracked door hidden behind it.

The door was in less than ideal condition, the wood covered in cracks and splinters, looking like it might break with the slightest force. But Sarah's mind wasn't focused on that. Instead, she was filled with excitement at the thought of what might be waiting behind it. She had always loved finding things that had been forgotten, and this, she felt, was no exception.

She opened the door and entered the room. It was dimly lit by a single, dusty window, the light struggling to penetrate the gloom. The room looked like it hadn't been touched in decades. Toys were scattered across the floor—wooden blocks, a raggedy doll, and a tiny rocking horse that seemed to creak on its own. The wallpaper, once bright with patterns of balloons and animals, had faded to a sickly yellow.

But what captivated Sarah the most was the mural on the far wall. It depicted a group of children playing in a sunlit field, their faces bright with joy. The details were astonishing—each child was captured mid-laugh, mid-run, as if frozen in a perfect moment of happiness. Yet, as Sarah studied the mural, she noticed something odd. In the center of the mural was a girl, slightly apart from the others. She wasn't playing like the rest; instead, she was turned away, her head tilted as if she was about to look over her shoulder. Her face was obscured by a curtain of dark hair, making it impossible to see her face. There was a wrongness that seemed to emanate from the girl, giving Sarah a sense of unease that made here skin crawl.

Despite that sarah decide to shake off the feeling, chalking it up to the strangeness of the old house. Sarah spent the rest of that afternoon in the playroom, sifting through the toys and marveling at how they had been left behind. As evening fell, she reluctantly left the attic, closing the door behind her.

That night, Sarah had a disturbing dream. She saw the playroom again, but this time, the children in the mural were moving. They were running, playing, laughing—except for the girl in the center. She remained still, her back turned, watching. In the dream, Sarah felt drawn to her, compelled to see her face. But just as she reached out to touch the girl's shoulder, she woke up, her heart pounding in her chest.

The dream left Sarah feeling unsettled, and she resolved to stay away from the playroom. But despite her decision, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was pulling her back. It was as if the room had a hold on her, an invisible thread that kept tugging at her curiosity, luring her back. She tried to resist, but the more she fought it, the stronger the pull became, until she found herself standing in front of the small door once again.

When she stepped into the playroom, she noticed that the girl in the mural had turned slightly, her face still obscured by her long, dark hair. The other children seemed less vibrant, their smiles less joyful. Over the next few days, Sarah visited the playroom again and again. Each time, the girl in the mural seemed to move just a little bit more, her posture more direct, more confrontational. The room felt colder, and the once playful atmosphere grew heavy with an unseen presence. The toys on the floor seemed to move on their own, and the rocking horse would sometimes creak without anyone near it.

One evening, as Sarah sat in the room, she noticed the light from the window growing dimmer, as though a shadow was passing over it. A chill ran down her spine as she realized the shadow was inside the room. She turned her gaze to the mural, and her breath caught in her throat. The girl was now facing her directly, though her face remained obscured by her hair. But through the strands, Sarah could see the outline of two dark, hollow eyes—empty, yet somehow full of malevolent intent. The room seemed to close in around her, the air thick with an unseen presence.

Suddenly, the door to the playroom slammed shut, the sound echoing through the small space. The mural seemed to pulse, the other children's faces contorting in fear and pain, their once-joyful expressions twisted into something nightmarish. The girl in the center began to move, her hand slowly extending from the wall, her fingers reaching out toward Sarah.

Frozen with fear, Sarah watched as the girl's hand stretched closer, the darkness in the room growing thicker, more suffocating. Just as the girl's fingers were about to touch her, Sarah snapped out of her trance. She bolted for the door, her heart hammering in her chest, and fled down the attic stairs without looking back.

That night, she told her parents about the playroom, about the mural, and the girl with the empty eyes. They didn't believe her, of course, dismissing it as an overactive imagination. But Sarah knew what she had seen, and she refused to go back to the attic, no matter how much they insisted. As the weeks passed, Sarah's dreams grew worse. The girl in the mural haunted her every night, her face growing clearer, her whispers growing louder. Sarah began to dread sleep, knowing that the moment she closed her eyes, the girl would be waiting.

Eventually, Sarah's parents decided to seal off the playroom, hoping it would put an end to her nightmares. They boarded up the door and covered the entrance with heavy furniture. But Sarah knew it wasn't enough. She could still feel the girl's presence, still hear the faint whisper of her name in the dead of night.

Years later, long after they had moved away, Sarah would still wake up in a cold sweat, the memory of the playroom and the mural etched into her mind. And in the silence of the night, she would hear it again, soft and distant:

"Sarah…"