[adapted]

by
O. Henry

Some people in the red brick district of the lower West Side never stay in one place for long. They move from one furnished room to another, never settling, always searching. They have no real home, but a hundred temporary ones. They sing “Home, Sweet Home” as a joke, carrying their few belongings in small bags. A fancy hat might be their most valued treasure, and a rubber plant in a pot is the closest thing they have to a family tree.

Because of this, the houses in this district have had thousands of different residents. Each home could tell a thousand stories—mostly unimportant ones. But surely, with so many people passing through, at least a few ghosts must have been left behind.

One evening after dark, a young man wandered the streets, knocking on doors. He had already tried eleven houses. At the twelfth, he set down his small, worn-out suitcase and wiped the dust from his forehead and hat. The doorbell rang, sounding faint and distant, as if coming from deep inside the house.

An old housekeeper answered. She made the young man think of a fat worm that had eaten everything inside a nut and was now looking to fill the empty space with paying guests.

“Do you have a room for rent?” he asked.

“Come in,” said the housekeeper. Her voice was rough, as if her throat was lined with fur. “I have a room on the third floor in the back. It’s been empty for a week. Do you want to see it?”

The young man followed her up the stairs. A dim light, coming from nowhere in particular, softened the darkness in the halls. Their footsteps were silent on the stair carpet, which looked nothing like fabric anymore. It seemed to have changed into something living—thick moss or lichen, sticky underfoot, as if it had been growing in the damp, sunless air.

At each turn in the stairs, there were empty spaces in the walls. Maybe there had once been plants there, but if so, they had died in the stale, unclean air. Perhaps statues of saints had stood there once, but it was easy to imagine that evil spirits had pulled them down, dragging them into the dark, hidden depths of some ghostly basement below.

“This is the room,” said the housekeeper in her rough voice. “It’s a nice room. It’s not often empty. I had some very elegant people stay here last summer—never any trouble, and they always paid on time. The water is at the end of the hall.

“Sprowls and Mooney stayed here for three months. They performed in a vaudeville act. Miss B’retta Sprowls—you might have heard of her. Oh, that was just her stage name. Right there, above the dresser, is where their marriage certificate used to hang, in a frame. The gas works fine, and you see, there’s plenty of closet space. Everyone likes this room. It never stays empty for long.”

“Do many theatre people stay here?” asked the young man.

“They come and go. A good number of my lodgers work in the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatre district. Actors never stay in one place for long. But I get my fair share of them. Yes, they come and they go.”

He decided to take the room and paid for a week in advance. He said he was tired and would move in right away. He counted out the money, and the housekeeper told him the room was ready, even with fresh towels and water.

As she turned to leave, he asked, for what felt like the thousandth time, the question that had been stuck on his tongue.

“A young girl—Miss Vashner. Miss Eloise Vashner. Do you remember anyone by that name staying here? She would be a singer, most likely. A fair girl, medium height, slender, with reddish-gold hair and a small dark mole near her left eyebrow.”

The housekeeper shook her head. “No, I don’t remember that name. Those theatre folks change their names as often as they change their rooms. They come and they go. No, I don’t recall anyone like that.”

No. Always no. For five months, he had searched without rest, always receiving the same answer. He spent his days questioning theatre managers, agents, schools, and performers. At night, he searched through audiences in every kind of theatre—from grand productions to cheap music halls so terrible that he feared finding what he most hoped for.

He had loved her more than anyone. He was certain that, since she disappeared from home, she was still somewhere in this vast city surrounded by water. But the city was like a bottomless pit, constantly shifting and swallowing people, hiding them beneath its surface.

The furnished room welcomed its new guest in a false, empty way—like a forced smile hiding exhaustion. It seemed warm at first, but only in a sickly, worn-out way. The old furniture, the torn brocade fabric of the couch and chairs, and the cheap, narrow mirror between the two windows all reflected a tired and fading comfort. A few golden picture frames and a brass bed in the corner added to the illusion.

The young man sat limply in a chair, as if he had no energy left. The room, as if it were trying to talk, seemed to whisper about all the different people who had lived there before.

A faded rug, once colorful like a bright tropical island, lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dirty, crumpled matting. On the walls were the same pictures that always followed lonely travelers from place to place—The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain.

The mantel had a simple, elegant shape, but it was covered by a cheap, crooked curtain, like the sash of a tired ballet dancer. On top of it lay small objects left behind by past guests—people who had been lucky enough to escape and move on. There was a tiny vase, pictures of actresses, an old medicine bottle, and a few stray playing cards from a deck.

One by one, like hidden messages becoming clear, the small signs left by past guests in the furnished room began to tell their stories. The worn-out spot in the rug near the dresser showed that a beautiful woman had once lived there. Tiny fingerprints on the wall spoke of children trapped inside, reaching for sunlight and fresh air. A dark stain, spreading out like the shadow of an explosion, marked the spot where a glass or bottle had been thrown and shattered against the wall. On the narrow mirror, the name Marie had been scratched in shaky letters with a diamond.

It seemed that the many people who had lived in this room had eventually turned against it—perhaps driven mad by its cold, lifeless feeling. They had taken out their anger on the furniture. The wooden chairs were chipped and dented. The couch, its springs broken and pushing out at strange angles, looked like the body of a strange beast that had died in agony. A powerful blow had taken a large chunk out of the marble mantel. The floorboards each had their own creaks and groans, as if crying out from separate pains.

It was hard to believe that the people who had once called this room home had done so much damage to it. But maybe that was the reason—they had expected warmth and comfort, but instead found only emptiness. Maybe their anger came from the feeling of being cheated. A real home, no matter how small, can be cleaned, decorated, and loved. But this place—this room—had never been theirs.

The young man sat in his chair, letting these thoughts drift through his mind. At the same time, sounds and smells from the house filled the air around him. From different rooms, he heard laughter, arguing, the rattle of dice, a mother singing a lullaby, and someone crying softly. Above him, a banjo played with energy.

Somewhere, doors slammed. Outside, the elevated train roared past every few minutes. A cat wailed miserably on a backyard fence. And the smell of the house surrounded him—a damp, stale odor, more like the air of a tomb than a home. It was cold and musty, mixed with the scent of old linoleum, rotting wood, and mildew.

Then, suddenly, as he sat there, the room filled with the strong, sweet smell of mignonette. It came all at once, like a sudden gust of wind, so rich and clear that it almost felt like a living presence. The man gasped and cried out, “What, dear?” as if someone had called him. He jumped up, turning around quickly. The scent surrounded him, wrapping around his body like an invisible embrace. He reached out, his senses overwhelmed and confused. How could a smell call out to him? Surely, it must have been a sound. But was it not the scent that had touched him, that had reached out to him?

“She has been in this room!” he cried. He rushed forward, searching for some proof—some small sign that she had been there. He was sure he would recognize even the tiniest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. The scent of mignonette—the smell she had loved, the one that always reminded him of her—where had it come from?

The room had only been tidied carelessly. On the flimsy dresser scarf, a few hairpins were scattered—those tiny, silent companions of every woman. But they meant nothing to him; they belonged to no one in particular. He searched through the dresser drawers. In one, he found a small, torn handkerchief. He pressed it to his face, hoping for a familiar scent. But it smelled only of heliotrope—bold and sharp. Disgusted, he threw it to the floor. In another drawer, he found random objects: extra buttons, an old theatre program, a pawnshop receipt, two forgotten marshmallows, and a book about dream interpretations. Then, in the last drawer, he found a black satin hair bow.

For a moment, he froze, caught between hope and fear. But a black satin hair bow was too ordinary. It was a simple, common thing—feminine, yes, but impersonal. It told him nothing.

Then he moved quickly around the room, like a hunting dog following a scent. He ran his hands along the walls, checked the corners of the bulging floor mat on his hands and knees, and searched the mantel, tables, curtains, and furniture. He even looked inside the crooked cabinet in the corner, desperately searching for some visible sign. But he didn’t realize—she was already there.

She was all around him, in the air, in the walls, in the scent that wrapped around him. She was calling to him, whispering through his senses, so strongly that even his body could feel it. Once again, he cried out, “Yes, dear!” and turned with wide, desperate eyes. But there was no one.

He stared into empty space, unable to see the love, the warmth, the open arms hidden in the scent of mignonette. “Oh, God! Where is this smell coming from? Since when can a scent call out to someone?” And so, he kept searching.

He dug through every corner, finding only old corks and cigarette butts, which he ignored. Then, under a fold of the matting, he found a half-smoked cigar. With a bitter curse, he crushed it under his heel. He searched the entire room from one end to the other. He found small, sad traces of past tenants—forgotten and unimportant. But of her, the woman he longed for, the one who might have stayed there, the one whose presence still filled the air—there was nothing. No proof. No sign.

Then, suddenly, he thought of the housekeeper.

He rushed out of the room, running downstairs toward a door where a thin line of light shone through the crack. At his knock, the housekeeper came out. He tried to hide his excitement, but his voice and shaking hands betrayed him.

“Madam, please tell me,” he begged the housekeeper, “who stayed in my room before I did?”

“Yes, sir. I can tell you again,” she said. “It was Sprowls and Mooney, like I said before. Miss B’retta Sprowls—that was her stage name in the theatres. But she was really Mrs. Mooney. My house is known for being respectable. Their marriage certificate was framed and hung right over—”

“What did Miss Sprowls look like?” he interrupted.

“Why, she had black hair, sir. She was short and heavy, with a funny face. They left a week ago last Tuesday.”

“And before them?”

“There was a single gentleman who worked in the hauling business. He left without paying me for a week. Before him was Mrs. Crowder and her two children. They stayed for four months. Before them was old Mr. Doyle—his sons paid for his room. He lived there for six months.

“That takes us back a full year, sir. I don’t remember further than that.”

He thanked her and slowly returned to his room. It was empty now. The warmth, the energy, the feeling that had filled it before—was gone. The scent of mignonette had disappeared. In its place was the old, stale smell of dusty furniture and air that had been trapped for too long.

His last bit of hope faded, taking his faith with it. He sat down, staring blankly at the dim, flickering gaslight. Then, after a while, he stood up, walked to the bed, and began tearing the sheets into strips. With his knife, he wedged the fabric tightly into every crack around the windows and door. He made sure everything was sealed tight. Then, he turned out the light, turned the gas on full, and lay down on the bed, feeling almost at peace.

It was Mrs. McCool’s turn to go out for beer. She brought it back and sat down with Mrs. Purdy in the basement room where housekeepers gathered—a place where secrets were rarely buried for long.

“I rented out my third-floor back room tonight,” said Mrs. Purdy, taking a sip from her foamy glass. “A young man took it. He went to bed two hours ago.”

“Did you now, Mrs. Purdy, ma’am?” said Mrs. McCool, nodding with admiration. “You sure have a way of renting out rooms like that. But… did you tell him?” she added in a hushed, secretive voice.

“Rooms,” said Mrs. Purdy, her voice rougher than ever, “are meant to be rented. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool.”

“Of course not, ma’am. That’s how we make a living,” said Mrs. McCool approvingly. “Plenty of people wouldn’t take a room if they knew someone had—well, taken their own life in it.”

“As you say, we have to make our living,” said Mrs. Purdy.

“That’s the truth, ma’am. And to think—it was just one week ago today that I helped you lay out the body from the third-floor back room. Such a young girl to do such a thing—with gas, too. She had such a sweet face, Mrs. Purdy, ma’am.”

“She would have been called pretty,” agreed Mrs. Purdy, nodding but still slightly critical, “if it weren’t for that mole. The one right by her left eyebrow.”