The Humming Wardrobe

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Not until that autumn in the old farmhouse on Serpentine Lane, where every floorboard groaned like a tired old man and the wind played tricks with the shutters. My room was at the end of the upstairs hall, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and a massive oak wardrobe that had been there since the house was built. My grandmother used to say that wardrobe was older than the town itself, and it had a habit of humming at night, a low, resonant note that seemed to come from deep within its polished wood. I always dismissed it as the central heating or the settling of the house, until one evening when I was packing for a trip.

I had my old MP3 player, a relic from my teenage years, with its frayed headphones and a battery that barely held a charge. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through piles of clothes, and I had one earbud in, listening to a playlist of forgotten indie songs. The other ear was open to hear if my father called me down for dinner. As I folded a sweater, I started humming along to a melody I couldn’t quite name, a tune that had been stuck in my head all day. It was then that I heard it—a thin, reedy voice, like a child’s, but with an eerie precision, joining my humming in perfect harmony. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I pulled the earbud out completely, but the voice continued, faint but unmistakable, coming from the direction of the wardrobe.

I remember the exact moment my blood turned to ice. The song had stopped on my MP3 player, but the humming went on, a little out of sync with my own, as if it were waiting for me to start again. I tried to convince myself it was just an echo, or that my own voice had lingered in the room, but when I clamped my mouth shut, the humming continued without me. It was a child’s voice, sweet and innocent, but there was something wrong about the pitch—it was too exact, too deliberate, as if it were mimicking me from a memory it had been rehearsing for years. I looked at the wardrobe, its doors slightly ajar, revealing a dark interior that seemed to swallow the fading evening light.

I didn’t wait to investigate. I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs, and bolted out of the room. I ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over the loose rug, and burst into the kitchen where my father was reading the newspaper. I was crying, my words a jumble of ‘wardrobe’ and ‘voice’ and ‘singing’. My father, a practical man who believed in logic and reason, tried to calm me down. He suggested it was the wind, or a neighbor’s child outside, or maybe I had fallen asleep and dreamed it. But I knew what I heard. And that night, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in my room. I curled up on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the house settle, but the silence felt as loud as the humming had been.

The next morning, I was determined to prove I had overreacted. I returned to my room, which felt colder than the rest of the house. The wardrobe doors were now closed, something I hadn’t done the night before. I tried to open them, but they were stuck, as if someone had pushed them from the inside. I put my ear to the wood and waited. There was nothing, just the steady thump of my own heart. I spent the rest of the day avoiding the room, but as evening fell, I knew I would have to face the night. I decided to confront it directly. I took my MP3 player, pressed play on a song with a strong vocal, and placed it on the floor in front of the wardrobe. Then I backed away and watched.

The song played, a woman’s voice soaring through the room. And then, from the wardrobe, I heard it again—the child’s voice, but this time it was singing the song perfectly, a cruel imitation that made my skin crawl. I watched in horror as the wardrobe doors creaked open, just a crack, and a thin stream of dust motes danced in the moonlight. The humming grew louder, and I could swear I saw a faint silhouette of a small figure standing in the darkness between the coats. I didn’t run this time. I stood there, my hands trembling, and I whispered, ‘Who are you?’ The singing stopped. The wardrobe doors slammed shut with a force that rattled the pictures on the wall. And then, from inside, I heard a child’s giggle, the kind that sends chills down your spine, and a voice that sounded like it was right next to my ear: ‘You left me here.’

I didn’t sleep that night, or for many nights after. I moved out of that house within the month, but I never forgot that voice. I still have the MP3 player, though it’s dead now, and sometimes, when I hold it to my ear, I think I can hear a faint hum, a child’s hum, waiting for me to join in. But I never do. Some songs are better left unsung.