The Cabinet in the Kitchen

July 8, 2014

by Monique

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (632 words)

"I was six when we moved into the farmhouse, my sister Ellie just three. The place had been my grandmother’s, a drafty old thing with peeling wallpaper and a basement that smelled of wet earth. Mom and Dad said it was temporary, but the boxes stayed unpacked for months. Our room was at the end […]"

I was six when we moved into the farmhouse, my sister Ellie just three. The place had been my grandmother’s, a drafty old thing with peeling wallpaper and a basement that smelled of wet earth. Mom and Dad said it was temporary, but the boxes stayed unpacked for months.

Our room was at the end of the hall, a cramped space with a single window that looked out onto the overgrown field. We shared a bed because the room was too small for two. The first night, I woke to a cold draft and saw something at the foot of the mattress—a tall, dark shape, like a column of smoke with a hint of a head. I blinked, and it was still there. I shook Ellie awake, and she started whimpering. I fumbled for the lamp, and the light flooded the room. The shape remained, solid and unmoving. We screamed for Mom and Dad, and the moment they burst through the door, it was gone. They held us, told us it was a dream, but we both knew what we saw.

Weeks passed. Dad worked nights at the factory, leaving before dusk and returning after dawn. Mom, pregnant with our little sister, spent most of her time resting in their room. Ellie and I played in the living room, which had a large bay window and a door to the kitchen. One afternoon, we were building a tower of blocks when we heard a loud crash from the kitchen. A ceramic cup lay shattered on the linoleum, shards scattered. The cabinet door above was closed. Mom rushed in, her face pale, and shouted, ‘Why did you throw that? You know better!’ I protested, told her it wasn’t us, but she didn’t believe me. She made us sit in the corner while she swept up the pieces, muttering about the wind and the old house.

The incidents became more frequent. One evening, Dad came home and found every picture frame in the hallway turned to face the wall. Mom blamed the vibration from the washer. Another time, me and Ellie were in the bathtub, and the water turned icy cold for a moment, then scalding. We screamed, and Dad came running, but by then it was normal. He checked the pipes, found nothing wrong.

The worst was the night Mom went into labor. Dad had taken her to the hospital, leaving us with our aunt, who fell asleep on the couch. Ellie and I were in our room, the door slightly ajar. The shadow man came back, but this time it was at the window, tapping on the glass. It had a face now—a hollow, sunken thing that seemed to be smiling. We huddled under the covers, praying for morning. When Mom and Dad brought the baby home, they found us in a corner, shivering.

We called the baby Rose. She was beautiful, but the house grew darker. One night, I woke to find Rose’s bassinet empty. I panicked, ran into the hallway, and saw the shadow man descending the stairs, cradling something. He turned his head, and for the first time, he spoke—a whisper that felt like needles in my ears. ‘She is mine.’ I screamed, and the lights flickered on. Mom came running, found Rose in her bassinet, cooing. I told her what I saw, but she just sighed, said I had too much imagination.

We moved out two months later. The family who bought the place said they loved the peace and quiet. We never told them about the shadow man, or the cup, or the whisper. Sometimes, I still dream of that farmhouse, and in the dream, I see the shadow man standing at the foot of my bed, and he has Rose’s eyes.

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