The Cardboard Box

I never believed in ghosts until that New Year’s week in Omaha, Nebraska. My family had scattered for the holidays, and I found myself tagging along with my aunt and uncle to visit my cousin’s family in a sprawling, cookie-cutter suburb. Their house was a chaotic symphony of kids, dogs, and endless noise, so when my cousin’s wife suggested I stay at her friend’s vacant rental property, an old Victorian a few blocks away, I jumped at the chance. The house was musty and freezing, its radiators coughing to life as I explored the rooms. The walls were lined with faded floral wallpaper, and the air smelled of mothballs and dust. But it was quiet, a luxury I craved.

That first night, I unpacked in the master bedroom, which featured a heavy four-poster bed and a bay window overlooking the street. I tried to sleep, but the silence was unnerving. Around 2 AM, a faint scratching sound came from the closet. I dismissed it as mice, but the scratching grew louder, rhythmic, like fingernails on wood. I finally got up, opened the closet, and found nothing but a single cardboard box tucked in the corner. It was sealed with duct tape, unmarked. I left it alone, but the scratching continued until dawn.

Over the next few days, I explored the neighborhood and joined my family for dinners, but the mystery of the box gnawed at me. On New Year’s Eve, I returned to the house early, determined to confront the noise. I retrieved the box and sat it on the kitchen table. The scratching started immediately, coming from inside. My heart pounded as I peeled back the tape. Inside, I found a collection of old photographs—all of the same woman with dark, hollow eyes—and a child’s drawing of a house with a figure in the window. The scratching stopped the moment I opened the box, but a cold draft swept through the room, and I felt a presence behind me.

I spun around, but there was no one. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle, when I heard a woman’s voice, soft and pleading, whisper, ‘Get out.’ I pulled the covers over my head, but the voice grew louder, and the room temperature plunged. I saw a shadowy figure at the foot of the bed, the same woman from the photographs, her mouth open in a silent scream. I ran out of the house in my pajamas, barefoot in the snow, and called my cousin to pick me up.

The next day, we went back to retrieve my things. The house was empty, the box gone. The landlord, a local realtor, denied any knowledge of the box. He told us that the house had been vacant for five years, ever since the previous owner, a reclusive woman, had died of a heart attack in that very bedroom. He said her estranged son had sold the house, taking nothing but a few keepsakes. I never learned what was in the photographs or the drawing, but that New Year’s, I made a resolution: never again will I stay in a house that feels like it’s waiting.