The Ashwood Wardrobe

In the autumn of my fifteenth year, my parents sold our cramped duplex in the industrial outskirts of Newark and bought a sprawling Victorian house in the quiet suburb of Ashwood. The house had been empty for years, its previous owner an elderly widow who had died alone. My grandmother, a woman of unsettling intuition, had lived with us since my grandfather’s passing. She was frail but sharp, her eyes always seeming to see more than they should. When we moved, we dismantled my old bunk bed, converting it into two single beds. One went into my new room; the other was placed in what would become Grandma’s room, a small, sunless chamber at the end of the hall that still smelled of mothballs and old wood. The previous owner’s massive, ornate wardrobe stood against the far wall, its doors sealed with a brass lock. Grandma eyed it with suspicion from the first day. ‘That wardrobe,’ she said, her voice thin as parchment, ‘has a hunger.’ We dismissed it as the ramblings of an old woman, but she insisted that the key be kept hidden, and she never let anyone open it.

A month after we settled, my father took a job in Manhattan, leaving early and returning late. My mother, a nurse, often worked night shifts. That left me and Grandma alone in the big, creaking house. She would sit in her rocking chair by the window, humming a tune from her youth, while I did homework in the adjacent room. One evening, as dusk bled into darkness, she called me to her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. ‘The wardrobe is breathing,’ she whispered. I listened, but heard only the wind. Still, she clutched my arm with surprising strength. ‘I see her—the widow. She’s standing inside, speaking to me. She says she’s been waiting. She wants to be let out.’ I shuddered, but I was a skeptical teenager. I told her it was just her imagination. She grew silent, her gaze fixed on the wardrobe’s clawed feet. That night, I heard her bed creaking and muffled sobs. The next morning, she was gone.

We searched the house frantically. The windows were locked, the doors bolted, but Grandma had vanished. The only sign was the wardrobe’s door, slightly ajar, and a faint scent of lilies and dust. The brass lock lay on the floor, open. A cold dread settled in my stomach. My mother called the police, but they found nothing. Days turned into weeks. My father grew distant, my mother hollow. I refused to enter Grandma’s room, but I could hear the wardrobe at night—a low, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat. I dreamed of Grandma’s face pressed against the wardrobe’s glass, her mouth moving in silent pleas. I would wake with scratches on my arms, though I never remembered dreaming of them.

One night, driven by a morbid curiosity, I crept into her room. The wardrobe stood tall, its dark wood gleaming with a fresh polish. The lock was gone, replaced by a small silver key resting on the shelf. I picked it up. It was warm, as if just held. My hand trembled as I fitted it into the keyhole. The turn was smooth, and the door swung open with a sigh. Inside, there was nothing—just a bare, empty space. But then I looked down. On the floor lay a small, tarnished brooch, my grandmother’s favorite, shaped like a lily. I reached for it, and as my fingers touched the metal, I heard a whisper in my ear, a voice I recognized as the widow’s. ‘You’ve come at last. We’ve been waiting.’ The wardrobe’s door slammed shut behind me, plunging me into darkness. I screamed, but my voice was swallowed by the wood. I felt hands—cold and bony—gripping my shoulders. And then, in the flicker of a candle that I could not see, I saw my grandmother’s face, not fearful, but serene. She was holding a child’s hand, a girl with white hair. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘She needed a companion. And now, so do I.’ I tried to pull away, but the darkness thickened, and the air grew thin. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never leave that wardrobe. The next morning, my parents found Grandma’s brooch on my untouched bed. They never spoke of the wardrobe again. But sometimes, at night, they swear they hear three voices singing softly from behind its locked door.