The Catalogue of Unfinished Things

The house on Alderney Lane wasn’t old in the way of castles or cathedrals. It was old in the way of a thing that has been left to settle into its own rot, a Victorian relic with peeling floral wallpaper and floorboards that groaned even when the wind didn’t touch them. It had been in my family for three generations, but by the time I was eight, only my father, my mother, and I occupied its drafty rooms. My father was a collector of antiques, and the house was his museum of forgotten objects: a child’s rocking horse with one glass eye, a gramophone with a cracked horn, and in the study, a massive oak desk with a drawer that no one could open.

That drawer was my obsession. It had no visible lock, but it was sealed as if by stubbornness itself. I used to press my ear to the wood, and sometimes I fancied I heard a faint, dry rustling, like pages being turned. My father said it had been stuck since before I was born, and he’d tried everything: oil, force, even a crowbar, but it wouldn’t budge. I dreamed about it, dreamed of a hand emerging from that drawer, beckoning me.

It was in the winter of my eighth year, during a snowstorm that muffled the world in white, that I first saw the figure. I had woken to the sound of my name being whispered, not from the hall or the yard, but from inside the walls. It was a woman’s voice, low and patient, as if it had been waiting a long time to speak. I lay still, my heart thudding, and then I heard the creak of the study door downstairs. I crept to the top of the staircase and peered down. The study light was on—a weak, yellow glow—and I could see a silhouette moving behind the frosted glass of the door. But my parents were in the sitting room, I could hear the murmur of the television, and the study door had been closed. The silhouette was tall, too tall for a man, and it swayed gently, as if in a breeze.

I should have run back to bed, but children are drawn to the inexplicable. I crept down the stairs, my bare feet cold on the worn carpet. The study door was ajar now, and I could see inside: the oak desk, the stacks of old books, and the chair swiveled to face the window. No one was there. But the drawer—the stuck drawer—was open, just a crack, and a piece of paper was sticking out. I pulled it free. It was a yellowed receipt, dated 1901, the year the house was built. It was for a delivery of ‘an Italian mirror, large, ornate.’ And underneath that, in a different hand, it said, ‘For the lady who waits.’

I shoved the receipt into my pocket and ran back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled, and I kept thinking about the mirror. I had never seen a mirror in the house, not a large one, anyway. The only one was a small, cracked thing in the upstairs hallway that my mother covered with a cloth. She said it was because the reflection was ‘wrong.’ I never understood what she meant until later.

The next morning, the snow had stopped, and the world was a white silence. My father was outside shoveling, and my mother was in the kitchen. I went to the study, but the drawer was closed again, as if it had never been open. I knelt and tried to pull it, but it was stuck fast. I pressed my ear to the wood, and this time I heard a faint, rhythmic breathing, slow and deep, like someone sleeping. I don’t know what possessed me, but I said, ‘Hello?’ And the breathing stopped.

A moment later, the window rattled, and a black shape darted across the lawn—a large cat, I thought, but it was too big, and it moved unnaturally, as if it glided rather than ran. It stopped at the edge of the yard and turned its head, looking directly at me through the window. Its eyes were not green or yellow, but a pale, milky blue, like the sky before a storm. And then it was gone, dissolving into the treeline.

That afternoon, I decided to explore the attic. I had never been allowed up there, but with my parents distracted, I dragged a chair to the pull-down ladder and climbed. The attic was a cavern of dust and forgotten heirlooms, all covered in white sheets like ghostly figures. The light was dim, but I saw a shape that made my mouth go dry: a large, ornate mirror, leaning against a rafter, its glass covered by a dusty velvet cloth. I pulled the cloth away, and in the dark I saw my own reflection, indistinguishable, but then the reflection moved on its own, a split second later. It smiled at me. I screamed and stumbled back, knocking over a stack of books. The noise brought my parents running, and they found me huddled in the corner, the mirror glittering behind me.

That night, my parents argued in the sitting room, their voices low but sharp. I heard my mother say, ‘It’s getting worse. We have to do something.’ My father said, ‘It’s just a child’s imagination.’ But I knew it wasn’t. Later, I found my mother in the kitchen, staring at a photograph. It was of a woman in a long white dress, standing in front of this very house, but her face was blurred, as if the camera couldn’t focus. ‘Who is that?’ I asked. My mother jumped, nearly dropping the photo. ‘No one, dear. Just an old relative.’ But her hands were shaking.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the house settle, but there was a new sound: a faint, repetitive scraping, like a fingernail drawn across wood. It came from the study below. I crept to the top of the stairs, and I saw the door to the study was open, and there was a figure standing inside, but it was not tall. It was small, child-sized, and it was rocking back and forth. As my eyes adjusted, I saw it was holding something—a black object, covered in fur. The figure turned, and I saw its face: it was mine, but ancient, with the milky blue eyes of the cat. It opened its mouth, and my voice came out, but deeper, not mine: ‘Let me in.’

I fled back to bed and buried myself under the covers. I didn’t sleep, but at dawn, I felt a cold draft, and when I peeked out, the door to my room was open, and on my pillow was a black cat hair. I knew it wasn’t a dream.

The next day, my father announced that we were moving. He had accepted a job in another city, and we would leave the house for good. My mother looked relieved, but I felt a pang of loss. I went to the study one last time. The drawer was open again, and this time it was empty, but at the bottom, there was a small, brass key. I picked it up. It felt warm. I pressed it to the drawer, and it turned easily, and the drawer slid out fully. Inside, I saw a collection of old photographs, all of the same woman, but in each one, she was older, and in the last one, she was a withered crone, but her eyes were that same milky blue. On top of the photos was a piece of paper, handwritten, in my great-grandfather’s script. It read: ‘I promised her I would keep the house for her, but she never left. She waits in the mirror. Do not bring another mirror into this house, or she will take you as she took me.’

I heard a sound behind me, a slow creak. I turned, and the tall silhouette was there, in the doorway, blocking the light. It reached out a hand that was not quite there, and I felt a cold touch on my cheek. I dropped the key, and it clattered to the floor. The silhouette stooped, picked it up, and placed it in the palm of my hand, closing my fingers around it. Then it vanished, and the house fell silent.

We left that day. I never saw the cat again, but sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I see a face that isn’t mine, just for a second, and I hear a whisper: ‘You came back.’ I haven’t. But the key is still in my pocket, and I know that one day, when I’m old enough, I’ll return to that house, and I’ll open the drawer one more time, and she will be waiting.