The Empty Pallet

In the autumn of 2012, I was a doctoral candidate in marine biology, and my advisor had pulled strings to get me a spot at the Ostend Marine Research Station’s autumn intensive on the Belgian coast. The station was a converted lighthouse, stark and efficient, but housing there was allocated before I arrived, so I was billeted in a private residence in the old town, a narrow, four-story house wedged between two others, its facade painted a faded sea green. The owners had let the upper floors to researchers during the off-season. I was to stay on the third floor, accessed by a steep, twisting stairway that creaked with each step. My room, as the landlady described it, was ‘simple but adequate.’

I arrived late, after a long train ride, and the landlady, a wiry woman named Mrs. Vanderhoeven, showed me up. The room was sparse: a single bed with a thin mattress, a nightstand with a lamp, a wooden chair, and a tall wardrobe. The window overlooked a narrow canal, and the only light came from a dim streetlamp below. The rest of the room’s walls were bare, save for a faded watercolor of a seascape. I was exhausted and barely noticed anything else. I unpacked my clothes into the wardrobe, but found a few empty hangers and a musty smell. I shrugged and went to sleep, pulling the thin blanket up.

The first night was uneventful, but I woke at three in the morning to a sound: a rhythmic scrape, like something being dragged across the floor above me. The footsteps stopped, then started again, slow and deliberate. I assumed it was another researcher, but when I asked the landlady in the morning, she said the floor above was empty, used for storage. ‘Old furniture, motor parts, that sort of thing,’ she said, her eyes darting. I thought nothing of it, chalking it up to the building settling.

The next night, the sound was lower, as if it was coming from the corridor outside my door. I got up and opened the door, but the corridor was empty, lit only by a bare bulb. I closed the door, and as I turned, I noticed something odd: the wardrobe door was slightly ajar, though I had closed it. I pushed it shut and went back to bed.

The third night, I woke not to sound but to silence. The city’s night hum was muted, as if the house had swallowed it. I lay in the dark, feeling watched. Then I saw it: a thin line of light under the wardrobe door, even though there was no lamp inside. Curious and irritated, I swung my legs out and walked to the wardrobe. I pulled open the door. Inside, the space was empty except for a palette, a wooden platform used for stacking goods, standing upright against the back wall. It was painted a dull gray, and on it, in black stencil, were the words ‘DURANCE – 3 PAL’ something. I’d never seen it before, but I assumed it had been left there by movers and I had missed it in my fatigue.

I pushed it aside to see the back of the wardrobe, half-expecting a door, but there was just bare wood. I backed away, feeling a cold draft from the wardrobe, and closed the door. As I did, I noticed that the palette was not leaning; it was standing upright, perfectly balanced, but when I had pushed it, it had felt heavy, as if it was nailed to the floor. I shook my head and returned to bed, but sleep was elusive.

Over the next days, the palette became a fixture. I would find the wardrobe door open at odd hours, and the palette slightly repositioned, sometimes tilted, sometimes straight. I told Mrs. Vanderhoeven, and she looked pale. ‘That room was once a workroom for my husband’s business,’ she said, ‘We stored our goods there. But after he died, I cleared it out.’ She paused, ‘Except for one palette. He said it was his favorite, that he would never sell it. When we cleared the room, we tried to move it, but it was as if it was stuck to the floor. The movers gave up and left it leaning against the wall. Later, my daughter came to visit, and she said she heard sounds from that room, like a man breathing. She refused to stay. Then, the researchers came, and I had to cover it with a sheet, but you…’ She trailed off, and I felt a chill.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring at the wardrobe, and around two in the morning, I heard a distinct rasping sound, like wood on wood. I sat up, and the wardrobe door creaked open by itself. The palette was now standing upright, facing me, and on its surface, the stencil seemed to pulse with a dark, glossy sheen. I got up and walked to it, my legs heavy. I pressed my hand against it, and the wood was cold, almost icy. I felt a sudden pressure, as if the palette was pushing back. I looked closer and saw, in the faint light, that the stencil was not just letters: it was a pattern, like a spiral, and within it, I saw an eye, a human eye, looking at me.

I yanked my hand away and stumbled back, tripping over the chair and landing hard. The palette remained still, but the eye seemed to follow me. I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the room, down the steep stairs, and out of the house, barefoot on the cobblestones. I didn’t stop until I reached the police station, where I babbled about a haunted palette. The officer, a stout man with a mustache, listened, then said, ‘Ah, you are in the old De Bock house. There were rumors that the owner hid treasure in a pallet, but he died before telling anyone. Many have searched. Perhaps you have found more than you wanted.’

I never returned to that room. I spent the rest of the night in a hotel, and the next day, I requested a transfer. The school accommodated me, but I had to collect my belongings. A colleague went with me, a rational woman named Elke. We found the room, but the wardrobe was empty, no palette in sight. The floor was bare, as if it had never been there. My luggage was untouched, but my notes had been shuffled, and on the top page, someone had written in pencil, ‘I see you.’ I burned my notes that day.

To this day, I cannot look at a shipping palette without a shudder. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that eye, and I hear the scrape of wood on wood, as if it is coming for me, to pull me onto its wooden surface, into its dream of endless darkness. The palette was not furniture; it was a doorway, and I had almost stepped through. I am glad I ran. But I am not certain I escaped.

The experience has left me changed. I no longer believe in simple ghosts; I believe in obsessive remnants, in objects that hold the spirits of their owners, especially those in transition, caught between this world and the next. That palette was a coffin, and the man who owned it was still trying to ship himself somewhere. I wonder where he is now, and if he has found his destination. I hope I never find out.

I still have the key to that room, brass and cold. I have kept it, though I don’t know why. Sometimes, in the dead of night, it warms in my hand, and I feel a pulse, slow and deliberate, as if something is waiting. Waiting for me to return.

But I won’t.

I will never go back.

Years later, I read about a fire that gutted that house, and the remains of a charred wooden palette were found in the third-floor room, reduced to ash. They say no one was inside, but the room was locked from the inside. They had to break down the door. When they did, they found the palette, standing upright, untouched by the flames, and on it, the stencil was clear, unwarped, as if it had been painted yesterday. The fire had consumed everything else, but not that palette. It was like it was immune. The authorities disposed of it, or so they say, but I have my doubts.

Now, I write this from a new apartment, far from the coast. I have no wardrobe in my bedroom, only a built-in closet, and I always keep the door open. But tonight, I heard a scrape from inside, and I saw a line of light under the door. I am afraid to open it. I am afraid of what I will find. But I know I have to look, because that palette has found me again, and it will not let me go until I understand what it wants.

I am writing these words, hoping they are not my last. If you read this, know that some things are better left in boxes, untransported, unopened. And if you hear a scraping in the night, run. Do not look. Because there are some things that should never be moved.