The Couch and the Kitchen Door

I was nine when we moved into the house at the end of the lane. It was a corner property, wedged between a dried-up canal and a row of abandoned warehouses. Our side of the duplex had a small courtyard with a dead lemon tree and a stone well that hadn’t seen water in decades. The other half was empty, its windows boarded up, but the landlord swore it was rented to an old couple who were rarely there. I never saw them.

My father was a man of rigid habit. Every evening at dusk, he would light a lamp in the small prayer room and chant for exactly twenty minutes. That evening, he was restless. A neighboring town was celebrating a temple festival, and he had promised my mother they would attend, even though he rarely left me alone. I had a small cut on my heel from a rusty tin can I had kicked the day before, so I was not to walk far. They made me promise to stay on the couch, watch TV, and not go near the well. I promised, and they left at six, saying they would be back by eight.

I settled into the musty couch, its springs groaning under my weight. The TV was an old black-and-white set, and the antenna only picked up one channel that flickered between static and a fuzzy drama. The kitchen was just beyond the TV, its door half-open, showing a sliver of darkness. I remember thinking that the house had a smell—not of dust or damp, but of something sweet, like rotting fruit. I shrugged it off and tried to focus on the show.

The clock on the wall ticked. At seven, the static grew louder, and the picture dissolved into a swirl of grey. I got up to adjust the antenna but stopped when I heard a noise. It came from the kitchen—a soft, rhythmic scraping, like a spoon being dragged across a steel plate. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I thought it might be a cat. I sat back down, but the scraping continued, growing louder, more insistent.

I limped to the kitchen door, my heel throbbing. The room was dark, but the light from the hall spilled in, revealing the sink and the stove. On the counter, a plate with a half-eaten apple sat—I had left it there that afternoon. The scraping seemed to come from the plate. I reached for the switch, but my hand froze. In the dim light, I saw that the apple was not half-eaten but whole, its skin slightly wrinkled, as if it had been sitting for days. And the core, the part I had bitten, was gone, replaced by a black, fibrous mass.

The scraping stopped. I backed away, but my heel caught on the doorframe, and I fell. The pain shot up my leg, and I cried out. When I looked up, the kitchen door was closed, though I had left it ajar. I tried to stand, but my leg gave way. I crawled back to the couch, my heart pounding.

I lay on the couch, staring at the clock. It was 7:30. Thirty minutes to go, I told myself. I pulled the afghan over my head, trying to block out the silence. But the silence was worse. The house, which had been still, now seemed to breathe. I could hear a low murmur, like a voice from deep within the walls, just beneath the plaster.

The TV flickered to life on its own. The static coalesced into an image—a well, old and mossy, from a perspective looking down. The water at the bottom was black, and something was floating in it, a pale shape. I stared, unable to move. The shape turned, and I saw a face, a child, staring up at me with hollow eyes. The mouth opened, and the murmur became clear: ‘Come closer.’

I squeezed my eyes shut, counting seconds. When I opened them, the TV was off, but the screen reflected the room. In the reflection, the kitchen door was open again, and a figure stood in the doorway—a small, dark silhouette. It took a step, then another. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed.

The figure moved toward the couch, its footsteps silent. I felt a cold draft as it passed, and the afghan lifted slightly, as if tugged. Then the doorbell rang. The figure vanished. My parents were back.

They found me on the floor, shaking, the afghan tangled around my legs. I tried to tell them about the kitchen, the well, the figure, but they dismissed it as a nightmare. My father checked the kitchen, found everything normal. He even showed me the apple I had eaten, the core still in the trash. But I knew what I had seen.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the house. The scraping had returned, but this time it was closer—under my bed. I reached down, my fingers brushing against something hard and cold. It was a small, rusted locket. I opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a child, similar to the one in the TV, but smiling. The locket’s chain was broken, as if yanked from the well.

I never wore it. I kept it in my pocket, a silent testimony. But every night, I heard the scraping at my door, and the murmur would rise above my mother’s lullabies, calling me to the well. I knew then that the house was hungry, and that I had brought it something it wanted.

Years later, we moved away. I never spoke of it. But last week, I received a parcel, with no return address. Inside was a photograph of the house, and on the back, in shaky handwriting: ‘The well is dry now. Come and see.’ I haven’t slept since. I can still hear the scraping, even here, miles away. It’s coming from my phone.