The Cabinet in the Hall

The day I moved into the old apartment above the bakery on Mulberry Lane, I knew something was off. My cousin Ned had been living there for a year, but the place still smelled of stale bread and something else, something acrid. I’d come from Arizona after a rough breakup, and Ned offered me a place to stay while I got my bearings. He was a baker, always up before dawn, and I rarely saw him, but he left me a key and a note saying to make myself at home.

The apartment was long and narrow, with a single hallway leading from the living room to the bathroom and two bedrooms. The kitchen was a tiny alcove off the living room, and it had a strange pantry cabinet with a scalloped tin door, the kind you might see in an old farmhouse. I didn’t think much of it at first, just unpacked my bags and settled in.

The first night, I woke to a sound like a hinge creaking, followed by a soft thump. I got up, checked the apartment, but found nothing. The next morning, I noticed the pantry door was slightly ajar. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe Ned had left it open.

But it kept happening. Every night, around 3 AM, the creak and thump. I started leaving the pantry door closed and even wedged a chair against it, but in the morning, the chair would be moved, and the door would be open, just a crack.

One night, I decided to stay up and watch. I sat in the living room with the lights off, staring at the pantry. At 3 AM, I heard the creak, and the door swung open slowly. I saw a hand, pale and thin, reach out and grab the bag of flour that sat on the floor just outside the pantry. The hand retreated, and the bag was pulled into the dark interior. I heard a rustling, then a soft crunch, and then the door swung shut with a thump.

I was frozen. I didn’t dare go look. The next morning, the flour bag was gone, and there was a fine white powder on the floor, leading from the pantry to the back door, which I hadn’t noticed before. I called Ned, but he was busy at the bakery and said he’d come by later.

When Ned came, I told him what I’d seen. He paled, then said, ‘It’s the cabinet. It’s been here since my grandma owned the building. She used to say it was a portal to the ‘other side,’ but I never believed her.’ I asked what was on the other side. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But sometimes, I hear something scratching from inside, like it wants out.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the living room, staring at the pantry. At 3 AM, the door opened, and this time, I saw a thin, pale figure crawl out, covered in what looked like flour. It moved on all fours, its limbs too long, its head twisted to look at me. It had no eyes, just dark sockets. It opened its mouth, and I saw teeth like needles, and it started to hiss, a sound like air escaping a tire.

I backed away, but it was faster. It lunged, and I barely dodged, stumbling into the hallway. I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, and held it shut. I could hear it scratching at the wood, whispering in a language I didn’t recognize. I stayed there until dawn, when the scratching stopped.

When I came out, the pantry door was closed, and there was a fresh bag of flour on the floor, as if offering a peace offering. I packed my things and left that day, but as I was walking down the stairs, I saw Ned at the bottom, holding a bag of flour. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it only comes out at night. Sometimes, I feed it.’

The last thing I saw as I got into my car was Ned opening the pantry door and placing the flour inside, and from the darkness, a pale hand reached out, and I swear it waved at me.