The Linen Closet

The house on Mulberry Lane had always been a bit off, but we never talked about it. It was a tall, narrow Victorian with a crooked porch and windows that seemed to watch the street. My best friend, Jonah, lived there with his parents and two younger sisters. His bedroom was at the top of the stairs, first door on the left, and directly across from it, the bathroom. That bathroom always gave me the creeps. I’d get this prickling sensation on the back of my neck whenever I passed it, like someone was standing just behind the door, holding their breath, waiting for me to glance inside. Jonah had his own weird tales, but he only shared them with me, the one friend who actually believed in the paranormal.

Jonah’s nightly rituals were a testament to his stubbornness. Around 2 AM, he’d wake with a parched throat or a full bladder, and he’d force himself to shuffle down the hallway, past that bathroom, to the stairs. But every time, without fail, he’d catch a flicker of movement at the base of the steps—a dark shape that darted across the foyer and vanished into the kitchen. It was too quick for a person, too solid for a shadow. He’d freeze, his heart hammering, then retreat to his room, pulling the covers over his head like a child. He never told his sisters; he was the big brother, the brave one. But he told me everything, and I believed him.

Last weekend, I stayed over. We stayed up too late watching horror movies, and the house settled into that dense, silent darkness that only old buildings have. I woke to a sound—a soft, rhythmic creaking, like someone slowly rocking on a wooden floor. I sat up in Jonah’s spare bed, straining to hear. Jonah was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. The creaking seemed to come from right outside the bedroom door. I got up, my feet cold on the bare wood, and opened the door a crack. The hallway was pitch black, but the bathroom door was ajar, and from inside came the distinct sound of water dripping into a basin, and that creaking, which I now realized was the old linen closet at the end of the hall. Its door was swinging slightly, as if pushed by a draft, but there was no breeze.

I stepped out, my heart in my throat. The bathroom light flickered on by itself, casting a sickly yellow glow. I saw it then—a figure, tall and thin, standing inside the bathroom, but not in the mirror’s reflection. It was as if the person was behind me, but also ahead. I spun around, and the hallway was empty. Then the linen closet door creaked open fully, and a pale hand, impossibly long, emerged from the darkness within, reaching for me. I backed away, but my feet were glued to the floor. The hand brushed my shoulder, ice cold, and a whisper, not in my ears but in my skull, said, *‘You’re not supposed to be here.’*

I must have blacked out, because the next thing I knew, I was in my bed at home, sunlight streaming through the window. Jonah called me an hour later, his voice shaky. He told me he found me in the hallway that morning, standing in front of the linen closet, my eyes open but unseeing, mumbling something about ‘the tall one.’ He also said that the bathroom mirror was cracked from top to bottom, and that a wet handprint was on the closet door. I haven’t gone back there since. Jonah’s family moved out last week, and the house is up for sale. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that hand reaching out, and I hear that whisper. And I know that whatever was in that house, it didn’t stay there. It’s waiting for me to walk past another closet, another door, somewhere else.