In our family home, room 404 always remained shut. It was an unspoken agreement between my father, sister Sara, and me, that the room was off-limits. My childhood was punctuated with nightmares of the unopened room, its wooden door covered in the dust of decades, filled with unimaginable horrors.
Our mother, a vibrant spirit who filled our lives with laughter and warmth, was the last to inhabit the room. She passed away under mysterious circumstances, when I was barely six and Sara was still a baby. Nobody spoke about it, yet the silence of room 404 was a constant reminder of our loss.
Years later, after my father’s unsuccessful attempts to keep Sara out of the room, we found her sitting on the worn-out rug inside room 404, absorbed in an old photo album of Mom. From that day onwards, Sara started spending more and more time there. It became her sanctuary, her own private world. And then, the transformation began.
Sara, a vibrant, energetic, fifteen-year-old, started changing. She grew distant, her laughter less frequent. She would often stare blankly at the walls, lost in her thoughts. She started missing school, complaining about terrible headaches. Her once bright eyes now held a strange vacant look.
One night, we were jolted awake by Sara’s piercing scream. We found her sitting in the middle of room 404, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. She claimed a shadow was trying to hurt her, its voice echoing with threats. But there was no one in the room, just Sara and her terror.
This event marked the beginning of a terrifying pattern. Sara would often be found crouched in corners of the room, whimpering in fear. Strange sounds could be heard from within room 404 - guttural whispers, heavy dragging noises, and the chilling sound of a woman’s laughter. Sara’s health continued to deteriorate.
My father, a stern man of science, refused to believe in any supernatural explanations. He consulted numerous doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, desperate to help Sara. She was put on a series of medications, which only seemed to exacerbate her condition. I watched my once vibrant sister transform into a shell of her former self, her spirit drained.
One day, when Sara was taken to another doctor’s appointment, I decided to investigate room 404. The room was unnaturally cold, filled with a heavy silence. I felt watched, but I pressed on, driven by my worry for Sara. In the corner of the room, inside a small closet, I discovered a tarnished wooden box.
Opening the box felt like unveiling a secret. It contained a black feather, a vial filled with red liquid, and a brittle parchment, etched with Latin verses, all items suggesting a ritualistic background. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and realization dawning on me. The supernatural couldn’t be denied any longer.
I spent days pouring over ancient rituals, deciphering the Latin verses, trying to understand the nature of the torment Sara was experiencing. The Latin verses were a plea for exorcism, to rid the host of evil spirits. The black feather and the red liquid were used in the rituals to banish such entities.
One fateful night, Sara’s screams echoed through the house. This time, the desperation in her voice was unbearable. I rushed to her side, armed with my newfound knowledge, ready to confront the entity haunting my sister.
In my room, I sat Sara down, her body trembling, her eyes wide with fear. With shaky hands, I held up the black feather and the vial of red liquid. I began to chant the Latin verses, each syllable echoing ominously in the room.
As I chanted, a cold gust swept through the room. The lights flickered. The air grew dense. An eerie silence engulfed us. Then, the convulsions started. Sara’s body began to shake violently, her eyes rolling back, a guttural growl escaping from her lips.
Fear gripped me, but I did not let it halt my chanting. I had to save Sara, banish whatever had taken residence within her. The room grew colder, the growling louder. I could see the shadowy figure of a woman materializing, her form wavering and indistinct.
Then, I noticed the old photo album lying open nearby, a picture of our mother smiling at us. I felt a surge of strength. This entity was not my mother, it was a malevolent force hiding in her memory, in her room. It had fooled Sara, taken advantage of her longing for our mother. But no more.
With newfound determination, I chanted louder, the Latin verses seeming to gain power with my resolve. The figure began to flicker, its growls growing weaker. With a final, resounding verse, I threw the red liquid at it.
Suddenly, the room was silent. The figure had disappeared, and Sara was unconscious. I held her, whispering comforting words as she slowly came back to us. She looked at me, confusion clouding her eyes. Then, a weak smile tugged at her lips.
The next day, Sara was different. There was a sense of calm about her that had been missing for months. The vacant look was gone, replaced by a spark of her old self. We were a long way from complete recovery, but for the first time in months, I felt hope.
Room 404 remained shut after that. The haunting ended, but the memory of it was too fresh. I knew we would need time to heal. But we had each other. We had survived. And somehow, that seemed enough.
Edit:
For those wondering about the room numbering? That’s a good question! It’s actually a sort of dark humor in our family. You see, my dad worked in tech and he loved his internet lingo. After my mom… well, after she was no longer with us in the usual sense, he started referring to her favorite room as ‘Room 404’. It’s a common error code on the internet when you’re trying to access a webpage that isn’t available or can’t be found. It was his way of coping, I guess, making a little grim joke that mom was there, but also… not there, just like those missing webpages. Strange, I know, but it stuck. And now, well, seems like the joke was on us after all…