The Room

There is a room in my house that no one ever goes into. Most of the time, we try to pretend it isn’t there.
If any visitors to the house ask about the locked door, or perhaps they teasingly rattle the handle as they walk by, we tell them it’s a storeroom full of junk as we hurriedly hustle them on. We call it the nothing-room and to us, that’s the safest way to deal with it. We pretend it's nothing because nothing never hurt nobody, as my grandfather used to say. Nothing does not exist therefore nothing can’t hurt us. Or so we tell ourselves.
My room shares a wall with the nothing-room. I wish it wasn’t like that but I can’t do much about it because there isn’t enough space in the house to allow us to close off two entire rooms. If a realtor listed this house, the optimistic sales blurb would boldly announce Four-bed family home! as if that were really true. But it isn’t a four-bed family home. It’s a three-bed house with a nothing-room included and any family but ours would be mad to consider living here. And no realtor would ever waste their time in listing it anyway. Everyone knows what this house is.
Sometimes at night, when my parents and little brother and sister are sleeping, I stare at the wall that I share with the nothing-room and imagine that I can see right through it. It’s been at least five years since I saw inside but I can remember what I saw as if it was burned on my eyeballs. A permanent tattoo of fiery terror, a stamp of horror once seen that can never again be unseen. My cross to bear, I suppose.
My little brother and sister have never seen inside the nothing-room. They barely notice it as they chase each other past the locked door. They were born after we last slammed the door shut and I’m glad about that. I’m very protective of Timmy and Megan. They’re too sweet and innocent to know what I saw. I’d fight to the death to stop them knowing and I mean that.
I demanded that my parents paint the shared wall black. I stamped my feet and I howled and I hollered. They refused at first, telling me that a bright, lively color was more appropriate, but in the end they gave in. I knew they would. They started giving in a lot after what I saw in the nothing-room and they’ve never really stopped. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have rules like other kids but hey, who am I kidding? My parents know as well as I do that I would never dare to do anything bad after what I saw in the nothing-room. But that hasn’t stopped them giving in and yeah, I got my black painted wall without kicking up too much more of a fuss. I added some nice gold colored hooks and it’s nearly perfect.
I’m looking at it now, the black wall that I share with the nothing-room. It’s a little hard to avoid it. I mean, it’s right there. I can hear the sounds as well, even over the thump and whine of my music. I never turn off the music in my room. Not ever. It helps a bit to disguise the sounds but I think my ears are used to listening for them. I don’t think I can ever get away from those sounds, even when I’m grown and I don’t live here anymore.
If that ever happens.
I can still smell it, the rotten meat smell of that room. Even though Grandma bought me some fancy plug-in air fresheners online that cost her a fortune and are supposed to ‘conceal all odors’. It’s supposed to make my room smell like a day at the spa or a mountain garden but I don’t actually know what either of those things smell like. It’s nice, but I can still smell the nothing-room through all that scent-y, flowery, fake disguise.
This used to be Grandma and Grandad’s house. Before they died, I mean. Well, Grandad died first. He always was a curious old *******. I didn’t make that up, I swear! That’s what Dad calls him. A curious old *******. A curious dead old ******* now, I guess.
Grandma died in the living room a couple of months after buying me the air freshener. Not that those two events are related. Dad said she died of a broken heart but I know he’s only saying it to make me feel better. I know the nothing-room killed her, just like it killed Grandad.
We couldn’t bury them in the cemetery. They’re in the nothing-room now, with the other undead. Although that might be an oxy-moron. I love that word. I think people should use it more often. Anyway, the oxy-moron I’m talking about is me saying that we didn’t bury Grandma and Grandad in a cemetery. The entire house is a cemetery if you want to get picky about it. Grandad, curious old ******* that he was, ignored the warnings of the rest of the people in this dead-end town and built his house on the site of an old cemetery. Said it was all just superstitious nonsense and he’d build his house wherever he wanted to.
Turned out it wasn’t just superstitious nonsense. Turns out the nothing-room itself is right on top of what used to be a Satanist’s grave. Some evil old devil worshipper from the 1700s. Also turns out that Grandad wasn’t just a curious old *******. He was also stupid. Why didn’t he listen? He could’ve saved us all a whole lot of sorrow.
Anyway, it’s my bedtime now. I’ll leave the light on and the music on. And I’ll hang my crosses from their hooks on the black-painted wall. It’s part of my nightly routine now and I guess I’ve grown to like it. It makes me feel safer.
Night!


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