The Empty Carton

I moved into the old farmhouse in the autumn of 2018, drawn by its sagging porch and the orchard that skeletonized into winter. The first oddity happened in the kitchen—a cupboard door creaking open by itself, a glass sliding to the edge and shattering. I chalked it up to drafts and old hinges. But then, in the dead of night, I’d hear a faint scratching from the attic, like something dragging its nails across the floorboards. I never went up there. I told myself it was squirrels.

The activity escalated in the spring. I’d wake to find the furniture rearranged in the living room, the TV turning on to static at 3:00 AM, and once, a single red apple placed on the kitchen counter, perfectly centered, as if waiting. I tried to ignore it, but one night, as I lay in bed, I heard a voice—raspy, like dry leaves—whispering from the corner of my room. It spoke in a language I didn’t recognize, slurred and guttural. I froze, my heart hammering. Then it stopped. I didn’t sleep that night.

A few weeks later, the voice became clearer. It said, plain as day, ‘I want milk.’ I sat up, flicked on the lamp, and scanned the room. Nothing. Just the empty walls and my own reflection in the window. ‘Hello?’ I called out, but the silence was deafening. I lay back down, my mind racing. Then I heard the thud of bare feet sprinting past my door, and a cold gust of air swept across my face, carrying the faint smell of soured milk. My skin prickled.

I bought a voice-activated recorder, a digital one, and placed it in the hallway and my bedroom. For nights, I left it running, hoping to capture the voice. But every time I checked, the recorder was silent, sometimes even wiped of earlier recordings. It was as if the entity knew and avoided it. I grew frustrated, and a new sound emerged—a rhythmic tapping on the walls, like knuckles rapping, but faster and more insistent.

Last night, I was reading in bed, propped against my pillows, when I got that familiar prickle at the back of my neck. Something was watching me. I looked up, around the room, but nothing was there. I shook it off and continued reading, but the feeling intensified. I placed my book on the mattress, set my glasses on top, and turned off the light. In the darkness, I heard a low growl, and then a violent impact against the book, as if someone had punched it. I snapped on the light. My glasses were on the floor, and the book had been shoved to the edge. I lay there, heart pounding, listening. The tapping started again, now coming from under my bed. I didn’t dare look.

That’s when I remembered the recorder. I had left it on my nightstand. I reached for it, pressed play, and heard static, then a faint, childish voice, but it wasn’t saying my name. It was saying, ‘The carton is empty.’ The tapping grew louder, and the light flickered. I grabbed the recorder and the book, and I fled to my car, driving to a motel. I haven’t been back since. The motel is quiet, but last night, I swear I heard a knock at the door, and when I opened it, there was a glass of milk waiting on the floor. I didn’t drink it. I haven’t slept in days. I don’t know what wants milk, but I know it’s not finished with me yet.