The Knocking on the Linen Closet

It was the summer of 2010, on the island of Sandoy, in a small village called Skopun. I was staying with my friend, Elin, in her inherited house, an old timbered dwelling that creaked and settled with the island’s damp winds. Elin had a gift then, a half-gift she called it, for seeing things just out of step with the world. She saw a woman in a grey dress standing by the well outside, but only once. She didn’t like to talk about it much.

One evening, as we were preparing a simple supper of fish and potatoes, Elin stopped mid-motion, staring at the doorway that led to the bedroom. ‘There’s a cat,’ she said, her voice low. ‘A large black cat, just walked behind you, into the bedroom.’ I turned, but there was nothing. We had no cat. The old house had a lingering smell of salt and dust, but no animals lived with us. I laughed it off, but Elin’s face was pale, her eyes tracking something I couldn’t see.

That night, we sat up talking about the old beliefs of the islands, about the hidden folk and restless spirits, as we often did. Elin was in her bed, wrapped in a patchwork quilt, and I was on a mattress on the floor, feeling foolish. Suddenly, she shrieked and leapt from her bed, yanking the quilt with her. ‘It scratched me!’ she cried, pulling up the hem of her trousers to reveal three thin red lines on her calf, already welling with blood. She scrambled onto my mattress and pulled the covers over both of us, trembling. She swore it felt like a cat’s claws, but the room was empty.

The next day, we were alone in the house. The wind outside howled, and the windows rattled. We were making coffee in the kitchen, trying to forget the night before, when three sharp knocks came from the living room door. It was a solid oak door, heavy and old. Elin grabbed my arm, her grip like ice. We moved on tiptoe to the bathroom and slipped inside, locking the door. As the lock clicked, we heard a series of booming slams from the rest of the house, as if every door was being thrown shut with violent force. The knocks came again, faster, right on the bathroom door, three resounding blows that made the wood vibrate. Then silence, an oppressive silence that seemed to thicken the air.

We stayed in that bathroom for hours, until the evening light began to fade. When we finally mustered the courage to open the door, the house was still. Every door was open, save for the linen closet at the end of the hall. That door was closed. Later, as we sat in the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle on its own, though the stove was off. And in the window, I caught a glimpse of a woman in grey, staring at me, her mouth moving as if forming a single word. I never saw her again, and Elin lost her ability to see the other side soon after, but for the rest of that summer, we didn’t speak the name ‘cat’, and we always checked the linen closet before opening it, expecting a scratch from behind.