The Antique Wardrobe

On the last Saturday of July, my older sister, Maya, her boyfriend, and I drove out to a flea market in a village nestled between two hills. We’d seen it from the highway for years, its tin roof painted a deep burgundy that glowed like a wound in the afternoon sun. Maya was hunting for a vintage steamer trunk; I just wanted to get out of the city.

We left at noon and arrived by half past. The place was bigger than it looked from the road – a sprawling maze of stalls and old barns converted into showrooms. We wandered through aisles of tarnished silver and dusty porcelain, the air thick with the smell of aged wood and mothballs. Maya found her trunk almost immediately, but I was drawn to a back room where a single wardrobe stood against the wall, its oak surface carved with twisting vines and leaves.

It was heavy, solid, and the price was a steal. ‘That’s beautiful,’ Maya said, running her hand over the carving. ‘Looks like something from an old mansion.’ The vendor, a gaunt man with spectacles, watched us without a word. He didn’t haggle, didn’t smile. Just nodded when we said we’d take it.

We loaded the wardrobe into the back of my pickup, and Maya joked about how it might be haunted. ‘I bet it’s full of ghosts,’ she said, laughing. I laughed too, but I felt a cold spot on my neck as we drove away, the wardrobe shifting behind us like a sleeping animal.

That night, we decided to sand and refinish it before bringing it inside. We set it up in the garage, and Maya brought out her sander. But when she switched it on, the machine sputtered and died. ‘Battery’s dead,’ she said. We tried plugging it in, but the garage outlet sparked. I tried a different cord, and it worked – but the sander’s pad wobbled, as if the wood were moving beneath it. Maya shrugged it off. ‘Probably warped,’ she said. But when she ran her hand over the surface, I saw her fingers tremble.

We left it for the night. The next morning, I went out to check on it. The wardrobe door was ajar. I hadn’t opened it. I pushed it closed, but it didn’t latch properly. It kept clicking, like a tongue tapping the roof of a mouth.

That afternoon, Maya came over with a box of old clothes she wanted to store inside. She opened the door and a cold gust of air hit her face. ‘Did you leave the window open?’ she asked. The window was closed. She placed the box on the shelf, but as she turned, the wardrobe swayed, just slightly, as if something inside had pushed. We looked at each other. ‘It’s just the house settling,’ I said. But I didn’t believe it.

Later that week, I was alone in the garage. I had to get something from inside the wardrobe – a wrench I’d accidentally left on the shelf. I opened the door, and my breath caught. The interior was deeper than it looked. The back wall was not wood but a dark, glossy material, like polished obsidian. And in that reflection, I saw a figure standing behind me – a man in a black coat, his face in shadow. I spun around. No one was there. My heart hammered. I slammed the door and backed away.

I told Maya, but she thought I was being dramatic. ‘It’s just a mirror,’ she said, opening the door again. This time, the back was normal wood. ‘You’re stressed.’ But I knew what I saw.

The next day, I found the wardrobe in my bedroom. I hadn’t moved it. Maya had stayed the night, and she swore she didn’t do it either. ‘It was already there when I woke up,’ she said. ‘I thought you moved it.’ We both stared at the carved vines, which seemed to have grown thicker, darker, as if they were alive.

We decided to get rid of it. We tried to drag it outside, but it was stuck, glued to the floor. We pushed, we pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Maybe it’s the moisture,’ I said, but we knew better. Maya cried, ‘I want it gone!’ She took a crowbar to the door, but the wood seemed to resist, splintering only at the edges.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house creak. At 3:33 AM, I heard a sound from the wardrobe – a soft, rhythmic knocking, like something inside trying to get out. I got up, my feet cold on the floor. I approached the wardrobe, my hand trembling. The knocking stopped. I opened the door slowly.

Inside, the space was empty. But the back wall was now a mirror, and in it, I saw my own reflection. Except my reflection smiled when I didn’t. ‘Hello,’ my reflection said. My voice was gone. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The reflection reached out, and I felt a cold hand close around my wrist, pulling me in.

The next morning, Maya found me standing in front of the wardrobe, my hand on the door. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. I turned to her, and she saw my eyes – flat, dead, like marbles. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, but my voice was wrong, too smooth, too calm.

We never got rid of the wardrobe. It stands in my bedroom now, its door slightly ajar. Sometimes, at night, I hear Maya’s voice calling from inside, pleading for help. But I can’t open the door. Because I’m on the other side, and the reflection has taken my place.