The Cardboard Box Under the Stairs

I never put much stock in the supernatural. My friend Marta would jab a finger at the air and claim my dead aunt had just tapped her shoulder, but I’d wave her off with a laugh. She’d just shrug and say, ‘I’m only the messenger.’ I figured it was her way of dealing with the mess her life had become. She’d been with Derek for over a year, and everyone could see the bruises, the way she’d flinch at loud noises. But she’d defend him, saying he was just stressed, that he loved her.

Then, about a month ago, I started hearing things. Not from the world, but from Marta herself. I’d pass her apartment and catch her in the middle of a conversation, her voice animated, but no one else was there. I’d knock, and she’d open the door with a guilty look, claiming she was on the phone. But her phone was always on the kitchen counter, screen dark. One evening, I stood at her door, about to knock, and heard her say, ‘No, I can’t leave him. Where would I go?’ There was a pause, then she laughed, a genuine, warm laugh. ‘You’re right. I could stay with you for a while.’ My blood ran cold.

The breaking point came last Thursday. I’d gone over to borrow a cup of sugar, and through the thin walls, I heard her talking again. This time her voice was sharp, almost angry. ‘I can’t just leave! He’ll find me!’ There was a long silence, and then, in a voice that wasn’t hers—lower, colder, with a strange echo—I heard, ‘He won’t be a problem if you don’t want him to be.’

I burst through her door without knocking. Marta was standing in the middle of the living room, her face pale, her eyes wide. ‘Who were you talking to?’ I demanded. ‘No one,’ she whispered. But I saw it then. A small cardboard box, taped shut, sitting on her coffee table. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was ordinary, unmarked, but there was something off about it, like it was darker than it should be, as if it absorbed the light around it.

‘What’s in that box?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ she said, too quickly. I reached for it, and she grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘Don’t. Please.’ Her eyes were pleading, but I was done with her secrets. I pulled free, tore off the tape, and lifted the lid.

Inside was a photograph. It was old, sepia-toned, of a woman with severe features and a knowing gaze. And as I stared at it, the woman’s lips moved. ‘You shouldn’t have opened that,’ she said, and though her voice was a whisper, I heard it as clearly as if she were standing next to me. I dropped the box, stumbled back. The photo had turned to face me, the eyes following my every move.

I looked at Marta, who was crying. ‘She’s been with me for years,’ she said. ‘She tells me things. She told me to be with Derek. She said he would shape me. Now she says he’s outlived his purpose.’ My skin crawled. ‘Who is she?’ I asked, my voice shaking. Marta’s answer came in the voice of the photograph, not her own: ‘Your grandmother.’

I felt the room spin. My grandmother had died when I was ten. She had been a bitter woman, always muttering curses at neighbors, at family. But I never believed she actually had power. I turned to run, but the box was in my path. The photo was now facing me, the woman’s smile twisted. ‘You’ll be staying with us now,’ it said. ‘The three of us. We have so much to talk about.’

I backed away, but the door was gone. The walls had shifted, the apartment rearranging itself into a corridor of peeling wallpaper and flickering lights. I heard Marta’s voice from behind me, but it wasn’t her. It was the other, older voice: ‘This is your home now. We’re all going to be very happy here.’

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this endless hallway. I see Marta sometimes, shuffling past me, her eyes hollow. We don’t speak. The photograph hangs on the wall where the front door used to be. She watches us, always smiling. I’ve stopped trying to find an exit. I just sit in the corner, praying for a miracle, wondering if anyone will ever find me. And sometimes, I think I hear my own voice from somewhere far away, telling me to be good, because my gran is watching. But it’s not my gran. It’s something wearing her face, and it’s very, very patient.