The Kitchen Gap

It started with a road trip to the derelict Meridian Sanatorium, a place that had been crumbling on the outskirts of our town for decades. I went with my cousin, Dana, and two friends, Marcus and Eliza. We thought it would be a laugh, a stupid thrill to explore a place that was supposed to be haunted. We found an old Ouija board in the admin office, its paint chipped and faded. Marcus, always the skeptic, insisted we try it. We sat in a circle on the dusty floor, our fingers on the planchette. The air was cold, and our breath fogged in front of our faces. We asked stupid questions, and the planchette slid around the board, spelling out nonsense. But then, as we were about to leave, the planchette shot to the corner of the board, tracing a word that made my blood run cold: ‘STAY’. We laughed it off, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

A week later, we were at Dana’s place, which was an old Victorian house that had been in her family for generations. The living room was large and cluttered, with heavy drapes and mismatched furniture. I was sitting on the couch between Marcus and Eliza, and Dana was in the armchair across from us. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting long shadows. I saw a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, between the couch and the bay window. A small brown blur, like a cat darting, but Dana had two white cats, and they were both asleep on the windowsill. The movement was accompanied by a soft rustle, and the curtains billowed as if a draft had passed, even though the window was closed. Dana’s old dog, a golden retriever, raised its head from the rug, ears flat against its skull, and stared at the corner. I felt a knot in my stomach, but I forced a smile and said, ‘Did you see that?’ Dana and Marcus looked at me quizzically. Marcus got up and moved the couch, looking behind it for one of the cats. There was nothing there. I pretended it was a mouse, but the unease lingered.

The second time, I was again at Dana’s house, this time alone with her. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, and Dana was in the kitchen making tea. There was a low table next to the couch, cluttered with magazines and coasters. I saw it again, a brownish blob that seemed to peek over the table, as if something was crouching behind it, then it ducked down. I felt a jolt, and Dana walked in at that moment, catching my expression. She asked what was wrong, and I pointed at the table. She looked, but there was nothing. She called the cats, and they both came running from the hallway, so it wasn’t them. I started to think I was losing my mind.

But the last time was the worst. I was sitting alone in Dana’s living room, waiting for her to get back from the store. The room was quiet, and I was reading a book, trying to shake off the lingering dread. Then I heard it: a faint scratching sound, like nails on wood, coming from the kitchen. My heart began to pound. I put down my book and slowly walked to the kitchen doorway. The kitchen was dimly lit, the only light coming from the window above the sink. And there, in the narrow gap between the refrigerator and the counter, I saw it. A small, brown creature, no bigger than a cat, but definitely not an animal. It had a wrinkled, leathery skin, and it was hunched, its limbs too long and thin, ending in tiny, clawed hands. It turned its head toward me, and I saw its faceu2014a grotesque mockery of a human, with wide, milky eyes and a mouth full of needle-like teeth. It let out a low, guttural hiss, and then it grinned. I stumbled backward, tripping over the rug, and landed on the floor. When I looked up, it was gone.

I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the house, not stopping until I was on the porch, gasping for breath. Dana found me there a few minutes later, and I tried to tell her what I saw, but the words came out in a jumbled mess. She listened, her face pale, and then she admitted that she had felt a presence in that kitchen for years, ever since she was a child. She said her grandmother used to tell her stories about a ‘brownie’ that lived in the house, a creature that was neither good nor bad, just a watcher. But the look in its eyes, the malevolence in that grin, told me it was not a benign household spirit. It was something that had been waiting, something that had been conjured by our foolish game at the sanatorium, and now it was attached to the board, and by extension, to Dana. It was waiting for something. I don’t know what it wants, but I know it’s still there, in that gap between the kitchen counter and the refrigerator. And every time I close my eyes, I see its face, and I hear a whisper, not in my ears, but in my very soul: ‘STAY’.