The Box Beneath the Crib

In November of 2004, I moved into a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old building in a city I’d never visited. I was twenty-two, and my daughter, Lily, was just two. The place smelled of dust and old pine, but it was cheap and close to the laundromat where I worked. From the start, Lily refused to sleep in her own room. She would lie in her crib, staring at the far corner, and cry until I took her into my bed. I put it down to the new environment, but after three weeks of sleepless nights, I decided to clear out the room. I emptied boxes, moved furniture, and finally pulled out the under-crib storage container that had come with the lease. It was heavy, and I dragged it into the living room. Inside, I found a stack of yellowed newspapers, all from the same week in June 1987. They were not just any papers; each one had an obituary circled in red ink. The first was for a woman named Eleanor Vance, who had died in a car accident at the age of 34. The second was for a young man, Marcus Hale, 19, who had drowned in a nearby lake. The third was for a girl, Sarah Connor, 16, who had hung herself in her bedroom. There was also a photograph taped to the inside of the lid: a class photo, with one girl’s face scratched out, and underneath, written in pencil, ‘She knows what she did.’ I recognized the girl scratched out – she looked like a younger version of my neighbor, Mrs. Kessler, who lived across the hall. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I took the box to my room and locked it in the closet, thinking it was just some forgotten thing. That night, Lily slept peacefully for the first time since we moved in.

But the next morning, Mrs. Kessler knocked on my door. She was an elderly woman, always in a floral housecoat, with a habit of peeking through her door chain. She asked if I had found anything unusual in the apartment, and when I hesitated, she sighed and said, ‘I knew it. They always come back.’ She told me that the apartment had been the home of a family in the ’80s. The mother, Eleanor, had been a school teacher. The son, Marcus, was a troubled teen. The daughter, Sarah, had been a quiet girl who one day hung herself. The father had moved out shortly after, leaving everything behind. ‘But the real story,’ Mrs. Kessler said, lowering her voice, ‘is that Sarah was bullied by a girl named Linda. Linda lived in this building, in this very apartment for a while. Sarah blamed her for everything. After Sarah died, Linda started seeing things. She moved out within a year.’ I felt a chill. The scratched-out face in the photo – it was Linda. And now I was living in the same apartment.

For a few weeks, nothing happened. Lily was fine, she played in her room, napped without fuss. But then, the whispers began. I would hear my name called from the hallway when no one was there. One night, I found Lily standing in front of the mirror in her room, talking to someone I couldn’t see. When I asked her who she was talking to, she pointed to a corner of the room and said, ‘The lady who hangs.’ I turned on all the lights, but there was nothing. The next week, I saw the shadow of a noose swinging from the ceiling fan in Lily’s room, but when I looked directly, it was gone. I started leaving the apartment more often, taking Lily to the park, but every time we returned, the smell of decay lingered in the hallway.

One evening, Mrs. Kessler came over, visibly shaken. She told me that she had seen a figure standing in my doorway the night before – a thin girl with dark hair, wearing a nightgown. ‘She was pointing at your closet,’ she said. ‘I think she wants something from you.’ I remembered the box, still locked in my closet. I opened it, and for the first time, I read the obituaries in detail. They were not just names; they were stories. Eleanor had been a beloved teacher, but she had also been having an affair with a student’s father. Marcus had been a bully, but also a victim. But Sarah’s obituary was the most detailed – it said she had been a talented artist, but had been teased mercilessly by a classmate named Linda. One entry in a local paper mentioned that Sarah’s diary had been found, and it contained pages of hatred towards Linda. I felt a mounting dread. The box was not just a collection of obituaries; it was a shrine to someone’s vengeance.

That night, I heard a noise from Lily’s room – a creaking sound, like a rope stretching. I rushed in and found Lily awake, crying. She pointed to the closet, her eyes wide. I opened it, and a wave of cold air hit me. The box was open, and the obituaries were scattered on the floor. One was missing – Sarah’s. I turned around, and there she was: a translucent girl, hanging from the ceiling fan, her face a mask of pure hatred. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. I grabbed Lily and ran to the living room, dialing Mrs. Kessler’s number. She answered, and I could hear her own fear. ‘Get out,’ she said. ‘Take her and leave. Don’t look back.’ I didn’t need to be told twice. I threw essentials into a bag, and we ran out into the cold night.

We stayed with a friend across town for a week. I tried to rationalize what I had seen, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw that girl. One day, I mustered the courage to go back to retrieve some of our things. The apartment was quiet, but I noticed that the door to Lily’s room was ajar. I pushed it open. The ceiling fan was intact, but on the bed lay Sarah’s obituary, with the words ‘Meet me’ scrawled in red on the back. I took a deep breath and, for some reason, I went to retrieve a shoebox I had stashed under the kitchen sink. That’s where I kept my own mementos, including a class photo from my high school days. I had been a shy girl, but there had been a popular girl named Jessica who had made my life hell. She had hung herself a year ago, and I had never told anyone I knew her.

I looked at the obituary again. The handwriting was familiar – it was my own, from a time I had thought about harming her. I had written a letter to her in my diary, wishing she would just disappear. I had never acted on it, but the guilt had always gnawed at me. Now I understood: Sarah’s ghost was a manifestation of my own guilt and anger. She had been feeding on my emotions, and she wanted me to admit it. I knelt on the floor and, for the first time, I spoke to the empty room. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean it. I never wanted her to die.’ As I spoke, the air warmed, and the oppressive feeling lifted. I looked up, and Sarah’s ghost stood in front of me, but her face was not angry anymore – it was sad. She nodded slowly and then faded away, leaving a single white feather on the floor.

That was five years ago. Lily and I moved across the city, and we never spoke of that apartment again. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a shadow behind me, just for a second. And I know that Sarah’s story is not over. There are more boxes of obituaries, hidden in other places, waiting for someone like me to find them. But I also know that the box we found was not a curse; it was a warning. It taught me not to hold onto hate, because it can take on a life of its own. I still have that obituary, but I keep it in a box of my own, with a note: ‘Remember to let go.’ And I do. As long as I remember, Sarah’s ghost stays quiet. But there are other ghosts, I’m sure, in other boxes, and they are always listening.