Mara had always thought her bedroom was the safest place in the house. It was small, warm, and filled with soft yellow light from the lamp on her nightstand. One quiet night, as she lay half-asleep, she suddenly felt three light taps on the tip of her toe. Not pressure from a blanket or a twitch—distinct, careful taps, as though someone were testing if she was awake. Her heart fluttered as she sat upright, scanning the corners of the room. Nothing moved. The curtains hung still, the door stood slightly open, and the silence felt unusually thick. She told herself it had to be imagination, exhaustion playing tricks, and eventually, she let sleep claim her again.
Morning arrived with sunlight and normal sounds, pushing the strange moment into the back of her mind. That afternoon, however, her younger brother Liam wandered past her bedroom and noticed the door wide open. Thinking she’d forgotten to close it, he stepped closer to push it shut. Just as his hand touched the knob, he froze. From inside the room came a low, rough sound—like a growl muffled behind a wall. He stepped back quickly, closing the door with more force than he intended. When Mara returned home later, Liam told her what happened, his voice shaky but trying to sound brave. They both laughed nervously, pretending it was nothing, yet unease settled between them.
Their mother, worried by the children’s stories and restless nights, called a local healer known for calming troubled spaces. The woman arrived carrying a small bundle of dried herbs and a gentle smile. She walked slowly through the house, pausing at Mara’s bedroom door. Inside, she closed her eyes, whispering words too soft to understand. After a long moment, she opened her eyes and spoke carefully. She said the room carried the echo of old fear—no spirit, no monster, but an emotional imprint left behind by someone who had once lived there and suffered quietly. Such impressions, she explained, could feel alive, feeding off attention and anxiety.
Together, they worked to change the room’s atmosphere. Windows were opened to let fresh air in. Soft music replaced the heavy silence. Mara rearranged her furniture, hung a new dreamcatcher by the window, and placed a small plant on her nightstand. That night, she lay in bed again, waiting to see if the tapping would return. Nothing happened. The room felt different—lighter, calmer, her breathing steady. She realized that fear itself could create shadows in the mind, and courage could dissolve them just as easily. From that day on, Mara’s bedroom returned to being a place of rest, and the strange night became a story they would one day tell with a smile rather than a shiver
