The Linen Press

That summer, the heat clung to the red-brick walls of our row house like a second skin, and the air inside tasted of dust and old wood. My mother had gone to her shift at the cannery, leaving me, my cousin Ellie, and my older sister Bea in the care of our Aunt Ruth, who dozed in the parlor with a glass of lemonade sweating on the end table. We were bored, too hot to run, so Bea suggested hide-and-seek. Ellie and I grinned, already planning our spot.

Bea began counting at the foot of the stairs, her voice a sing-song drone that made the hair on my arms stand up. Ellie and I crept up to the second floor, past the sun-bleached hallway where a single fly buzzed against the window, and into my mother’s bedroom. We’d decided on the linen press—a tall, narrow wardrobe that smelled of lavender and mothballs. The top shelf was just a ledge where spare blankets were stacked, but there was a gap behind them, a shadowy hollow that seemed made for us. We climbed in, tugged the door shut, and pressed ourselves into the dark, hearts thumping.

The press was cramped, and I could feel Ellie’s breath on my neck. We listened as Bea’s footsteps echoed on the landing. Then, from the right, came a soft rustle—a sound like fabric shifting, but with a small, wet undertone. Ellie grabbed my arm. ‘You hear that?’ she whispered. I shook my head, not wanting to believe it. It must have been the house settling, I thought. We heard Bea enter the room, her shadow blocking the sliver of light under the press door. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle.

The sound came again, closer this time, like something drawing breath. A cold draft curled around my ankles. Ellie’s nails dug into my wrist. ‘There’s something in here with us,’ she whimpered. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but my throat had closed up. The air grew thick, heavy, and the smell of lavender turned sour, like spoiled meat.

Suddenly, the press door creaked open from the inside, a crack of light slicing through the dark. A pale, thin hand, impossibly long, reached out from beside us, from the wall of the press itself. It wasn’t touching us, but it was there, fingers flexing as if testing the air. Ellie screamed, a sharp, ragged sound, and we tumbled out of the press in a tangle of limbs, scrambling to the floor.

Bea stood in the doorway, eyes wide. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice quivering. We pointed, but when we looked back, the press door was closed, and the room was still. Aunt Ruth called up the stairs, asking if we were all right. We said yes, but we knew it was a lie.

We never played hide-and-seek in that house again. And for years, I would wake in the night with the sound of that rustle in my ears, the feeling of that cold presence, and the memory of the press’s interior: how, in the moment before we fled, I saw my own reflection in the dark, but my reflection was smiling, and I was not.