A Short Story About Healing Hidden in an Abandoned House

Have you ever felt the weight of emotions so heavy, you couldn’t even cry?
Grief, exhaustion, self-doubt—they build up quietly until suddenly, it feels like you’re drowning inside your own skin.

This is a short story about that kind of pain—and a mysterious room in an abandoned house that holds an unexpected truth.
If you’ve been carrying unspoken sadness, maybe this story will whisper something to you too.

The House Across My Window

I stared out my window after a journaling session. It was a nice house—the abandoned one right across from my bedroom.
Though the grass had grown wild and merciless, I could tell it once had a lovely front yard, probably bursting with flowers and deep green blades of grass.

It was old, abandoned for decades. Victorian in style, painted navy blue and white.
I’ve always wondered how happy the people who lived there must’ve been.

But it’s not the house that’s unique or intriguing—it’s the stories whispered around town.

The Sailor House Rumor

“Oh, the sailor house? I call it that because of the color. Anyways, my nana told me there’s a room in that house no one is allowed to enter. And if you do—you’re not allowed to cry inside. I don’t know why, but Nana said the rumor’s been passed on for generations.”

That was all I got from the cashier at the only grocery store in town.

I often wonder what kind of memories that room holds. Who started the rumor? And is it even true?

As much as I wanted to find out for myself, I didn’t want to tiptoe around the house and fall to my death before even reaching the room. Besides, I didn’t know which room it was—the one with the no-crying rule.

Life Pressing In

Life has been hard lately. Debts multiplying like lice. Freelance design work drying up. Self-doubt creeping in like a parasite.
And worst of all—I haven’t healed from the loss of my life anchor: my dad.

I miss him terribly. Everything’s been off since he crossed to the other side.
I don’t know how to explain my grief. It’s like I can still feel him close, as if he could pick up my call at any moment… and yet, he’s nowhere to be found.
He was always there when the storms rolled in.

Journaling has helped me breathe a little easier. It doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps me from falling apart.
The exhaustion gnaws at my soul.

Eventually, my body gave in—I collapsed onto my bed and tried to sort through the chaos in my mind.
Each thought, a jagged shard. Each memory, a weight.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To release the pressure building inside me. But I couldn’t. My body tightened.

I knew this feeling. I hated it.
Like being locked inside a box with no corners, no walls—nowhere to go and yet… feeling like I’m everywhere at once.

I tried to distract myself. Flowers. Cakes. Books. Things I usually love. But none of it worked.

The Door Opens

My eyes drifted back to the sailor house.

And before I knew it, I was out the door and standing in front of it. My heart pounded, but my hand turned the doorknob anyway.
It creaked open. The house welcomed me with its dust-covered charm.

Cream-colored walls. Deep brown wooden accents. Dust floating like quiet ghosts.
I covered my nose and stepped into the living room. Only one room on the first floor—the study.
Filled with old books. My hands itched to explore, but I kept moving.

Ahead, a staircase waited. I climbed it without hesitation.

The Marked Room

At the top, I was greeted by a massive glass window overlooking the backyard—trees swaying gently, birds darting through the air.
Some might find it boring. I found it sacred. The kind of view that holds forgotten stories in its roots.

There were four rooms upstairs.

I didn’t have to guess which one it was.
One door had an ‘X’ scrawled across it.

I took a deep breath and turned the handle.

There was… nothing. Just an empty room.
But I knew. This was it. The air was different. The silence was full.

I stepped inside and shut the door. A window mirrored the one outside, offering the same view of the trees.

The Storm Within

Maybe this could calm me, I thought.
So I sat in the center of the floor and closed my eyes.

This time, I didn’t dodge what was inside me.

I let the bullets hit.

I told myself I was strong. That I wouldn’t cry.

Bad idea.

The moment I truly felt the weight of my father’s loss, tears erupted.
Loud, aching sobs that filled the room. My longing and frustration poured out of me as I curled into myself, crying harder than I ever had before.

I broke the rule.

I’m going to die here, I thought.
They’ll only find me when the smell of my rotting body reaches the neighbors.

But even in that spiral, something odd happened—
I wasn’t afraid.

Time blurred. My sobs faded into stillness.
I sat up slowly, dazed, staring at the floor. Maybe it was just a rumor, I told myself. I needed it to be.

I stood, but my knees buckled. Crying is exhausting.

The Hidden Letter

As I fell, my knee hit the floorboards. Thud. The sound echoed… wrong.

I tapped around.
That one plank was hollow.

With my fingernails, I pried it open—and found a dusty, web-wrapped piece of paper.

Maybe it’s a treasure map, I joked to myself.

But as I unfolded it, I saw the handwriting—elegant, beautiful.

And just like that, it felt like I’d opened a portal.

Katerina’s Voice

If you’ve found this letter, then you are about to uncover the truth behind the rumor.

My name is Katerina—the one who first whispered it into the world. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

As a girl, I bore a scar upon my cheek—left by a stray cat I once tried to pet.
The children were unkind. They called me “Katerina the Ripper.” Said I looked wicked. My long black hair did me no favors.

I withdrew from the world, took to hiding. Only after sundown did I venture out, clutching my dolls like quiet companions.

One day, while fetching milk and eggs with my mother, a boy shouted the name again and fled.
I kept my eyes low, praying she hadn’t heard.

She said nothing then.

But once we returned home, she led me to her painting room—this very room—and bade me sit.

“Say nothing,” she told me. “But you must not cry.”

I did not understand, but I obeyed.

As I sat, their words echoed in my mind. And the tears came. I wiped them in vain. They would not cease.

When she entered, I braced for scolding.

But she merely sat beside me and gathered me into her arms.

What the Room Was Meant For

“My darling Katerina,” she said softly, “to bury one’s feelings is to invite them to linger, like ghosts. They will haunt you until you give them breath.”

“If you are angry—shout. If sorrow visits you—weep freely. Let the storm pass through you. Only then can you know your shape again.”

“And once you’ve braved the storm, never look behind you. Life may harden, but it also grants beauty. One must know shadow to recognize light.”

That day, I wept until I was emptied. And I never again silenced my emotions.

I was the one who breathed life into the rumor—planted it like a seed, hoping one day, someone with courage in their bones might find this room, and learn what my mother once imparted to me.

To press one’s sorrow beneath the ribs does not protect the heart. Feelings do not vanish when buried; they bide their time.

That is why I named it the room where no one cries.

Not because tears are forbidden…

…but because many have come here, clutching their pain in silence, unwilling to let the storm pass through. In doing so, they left fragments of themselves scattered in the quiet.

This room does not judge. It challenges silence. Listening comes easy to a room like this—it remembers. And it waits for those brave enough to let go.

And when you are ready… it allows you to fall apart.

Katerina’s Final Message

So whoever you are, know this:
You are allowed to feel.

Just promise me—return to the world.
And live beautifully.

With warmth from the other side,
Katerina
October 19, 1912

I folded the letter gently and pressed it to my chest.
For a moment, I just breathed—no fear, no hiding—just breath.
I think I just made the best decision of my life.

Before I left, I placed the letter back where I found it.
Maybe one day, someone else will need it too.
Someone like Katerina. Someone like me.

Some rooms stay with you.
If this one did, let it whisper to another.
Share it. Or stay. There’s more waiting in the dark.