The Fridge’s Wooden Throat

I moved to a small town in Alberta after my father passed, leaving behind the humid chaos of Manila for the dry, endless prairies. My new house was a narrow two-story on a quiet street, but the eerie events that clung to me like cobwebs started in the bedroom of that Canadian home, not in the Philippines. I was alone, as always, save for the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen below.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late autumn, and I was watching a CFL game on the couch in my living room, which was directly above the kitchen. The floor was hardwood, cold even with socks, and the only furniture was the couch, a coffee table, and a bookshelf. The refrigerator was directly below me, its compressor kicking on and off with a rhythmic shudder. I was half-watching the game, half-drifting to sleep, when a series of sharp knocks came from directly under the couch, as if someone was rapping on the ceiling of the kitchen from the basement. But there was no basement.

I froze, the remote slipping from my hand. The knocks were three, deliberate, with a pause between each, like a code. I waited, heart thumping, but nothing else came. I told myself it was the pipes, the settling of the house. But the sound was too precise, too human. I got up, checked the kitchen, the basement door (which was locked from my side), and the backyard through the sliding glass door. Nothing. I chalked it up to stress and sat back down, but I couldn’t focus on the game anymore.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fridge below. At around 2 AM, the knocking started again, but this time it was from inside the wall beside my bed. It was a rapid, frantic rapping, like a child playing a drum solo on the plaster. I pressed my ear to the wall, and the knocking stopped. Then, a muffled voice, so low I could barely make it out: ‘Let me out.’ My blood ran cold. I pulled back, my breath clouding in the air. The voice didn’t come from the wall; it came from the floor vent near the bed, as if someone was in the ductwork.

I left the bedroom and spent the rest of the night on the couch, the TV on, the lights blazing. The fridge hummed, and I could almost hear a whispering rhythm beneath its mechanical drone. I started to notice that the fridge’s hum would sometimes sync with the knocking, as if it were answering. The next day, I inspected the floor vents and the crawlspace. Nothing. But when I closed the closet door in the hallway, I heard a faint, mocking knock from inside the wall.

Days passed, and the knocking became a regular occurrence, always in sets of three, always from somewhere unexpected: inside the pantry, under the sink, from the attic access. I started leaving the radio on to drown it out, but one afternoon, as I was boiling water for tea, the refrigerator door swung open on its own, and a frost-covered handprint appeared on the inside of the door, as if someone had pressed against it from the inside. The hand was small, like a child’s, but the fingers were too long. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, my heart racing. I called a friend who was into the paranormal; she said it might be a ‘trickster spirit’ and advised me to sage the house.

I got some sage from a New Age shop in town and walked through every room, the smoke curling into corners. As I approached the kitchen, the fridge started to rattle violently, and the hum rose to a pitch that made my ears ache. I blew the smoke at it, and the rattling stopped. But then, from the vent above the stove, came a voice, clear as day: ‘You think smoke can stop me?’ I dropped the sage and ran outside, breathing in the cold Canadian air.

That evening, I decided to confront it. I sat in the kitchen, the fridge humming before me. I spoke to the empty room, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The fridge hummed, and a single knock came from inside it, as if in response. I opened the door, half-expecting something to leap out, but it was empty except for my groceries. But then I noticed that the milk carton had been flipped upside down, and a sour smell was emanating from the fridge. I closed it and walked to the sink, and as I turned on the tap, the water came out dark, almost black, and freezing cold.

I shut the water off and stared at my reflection in the kitchen window. I saw a figure behind me, a pale, gaunt shape with hollow eyes, peeking from behind the fridge. I whirled around, but nothing was there. The fridge hummed, and I could see my breath fogging in front of my face, even though the heater was on. The knocking started again, this time a slow, rhythmic beat, like a heartbeat, emanating from the fridge itself. I realized the fridge was not just an appliance; it was a gateway, a wooden throat that had swallowed something malevolent, and it was trying to speak.

I moved out the next week. I packed my bags and stayed at a friend’s house until I found a new apartment. I never went back. To this day, I can’t stand the sound of a refrigerator’s hum. And sometimes, in my new place, when the fridge cycles on, I hear three soft knocks from inside it, and I know that wherever I go, that wooden throat will follow me, waiting for me to listen.