The Gaping Wardrobe

Our anniversary fell on a rainy Thursday, so Marcus booked us into the Crestfield Grand, a Victorian relic perched atop a hill, its red brick facade weeping with ivy. The room, number 214, was all mahogany and damask, with a four-poster bed that groaned under our weight. We laughed, ordered champagne, and watched the rain streak the tall windows. I retrieved my cardigan from the towering wardrobe, its carved doors slightly ajar, and felt a draft, cold as a dead man’s kiss, seep from within.

Later, as we lay tangled in sheets, Marcus grew still. His fingers, which had been tracing my spine, stopped. ‘Do you feel that?’ he whispered, his breath hot and shaky against my ear. His eyes were fixed on the wardrobe, its doors now fully closed. ‘There’s something… in there.’ I dismissed it as the building’s old bones settling, but a prickle of dread rippled across my skin. The air in the room grew thick, and the AC unit above the bed rattled, emitting a low, guttural hum that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. I wanted to speak, to break the silence, but Marcus clamped his hand over my mouth, his face ashen. ‘Don’t say a word,’ he breathed, ‘it hears us.’

We lay motionless, listening to the hum, which slowly modulated into a series of irregular clicks, like knuckles cracking. The silence that followed was worse; it was a vacuum, pulling all sound into the dark space of the wardrobe. Marcus’s grip on my wrist tightened. I tried to shut my eyes, but behind my lids I saw shapes shifting, coalescing into a tall, thin silhouette with limbs too long, head tilted at an impossible angle. I felt a sob building in my throat, but I choked it back.

Then Marcus released a torrent of curses, a ritual our grandmothers used to banish spirits. He spat words at the wardrobe, his voice cracking, but nothing happened. The clicking grew faster, more frenzied, and the wardrobe doors began to bulge outward, as if something pressed from inside. I couldn’t help it; a nervous laugh escaped me, a high, reedy sound that seemed to enrage the presence. The room temperature plummeted, and my breath plumed in the dim light. Marcus’s face was a mask of terror and determination.

He ordered me to gather our leftover food and the half-empty champagne bottle. ‘Flush it down the toilet,’ he commanded, ‘every last bit. Now!’ I scrambled, my fingers numb, and did as he said, watching the expensive wine swirl away. But as I turned from the toilet, a child’s giggle echoed from the bathroom vent, and I knew we had not rid of it—we had only fed it. The wardrobe doors creaked open, and the darkness within seemed to lean out, hungry and vast. I grabbed Marcus’s hand, and we fled the room, the sound of footsteps—soft and deliberate—following us down the corridor, until we burst into the empty lobby, the night manager’s eyes widening at our disheveled state. ‘Did you see something?’ he asked, but I could only shake my head, my voice trapped in the room we left behind. To this day, I still feel that cold draft whenever I pass an open closet, and I wonder if the something in the wardrobe ever found another pair of lovers to haunt.