The Room at the End of the Hall
by Storyora
I never liked that room. Even as a kid, I remember feeling weird whenever I passed it. It was always locked. Always cold around the doorframe. My grandparents called it the “storage room” but never let anyone inside—not even when they gave me the whole upstairs to stay in one summer when I was fourteen.
There was nothing visibly wrong with the hallway. It had old wallpaper, creaky floors, a few dusty frames. Normal old-house stuff. But something about the end of it—the heavy wood door, the keyhole that looked too big—gave me goosebumps before I even knew what that word meant.
The Whisper
It was my fourth night alone. My grandparents had gone to visit my uncle in another town. I had the house to myself. I was fine. Until about 1:40 AM.
I’d been up reading. Headphones on. But I swear—SWORE—I heard my name. Not shouted. Not spoken. Whimpered.
I took the headphones off. Waited. Nothing.
Then again. Soft. Just, “Eli…”
I froze. It came from the end of the hall. From that room.
I Should Have Gone Back to Sleep
But I didn’t. Because I was a dumb, curious teenager with a phone flashlight and a pulse so loud I could hear it in my teeth.
The door was still locked. But I looked through the keyhole.
I expected dark. Dust. Shadows. What I saw was… white walls. Covered in drawings. All over. Childlike sketches. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
And then—
One drawing moved.
I don’t know how else to explain it. It wasn’t alive. It wasn’t blinking. But one of the faces on the wall—the only one drawn in red—was smiling now. I’m sure it hadn’t been smiling a second ago.
The Lock Was Rusted Shut
I tried to turn the handle (why? I don’t know). It wouldn’t budge. I backed away slowly. Didn't even sleep in the bedroom that night. I went downstairs. Slept on the floor with the lights on.
The next morning, I went back up. Same hallway. Same door. But now—it was open.
Inside? Nothing. Empty. No drawings. No white walls. Just boxes. Dust. A folded tarp. Like it had never been touched.
I never told anyone. Not until now.
I Still Hear My Name
Not often. Not always. But sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, I’ll hear that same whisper. From nowhere. Soft. Slow. Familiar.
“Eli…”
Part of me thinks it followed me home. Part of me knows I never really left that hallway.
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