The Locked Wardrobe

When I was nineteen, I spent a summer in the small town of Rookwood, staying in my aunt’s old Victorian house. She had moved to a care facility, and the place was to be sold, so I was tasked with clearing out her belongings. It was a quiet, dusty place, with creaking floorboards and the smell of mothballs. Every evening, I’d sit in the parlor with a glass of lemonade, listening to the wind rustle the dead leaves outside.

One night, I was woken by a frantic knocking on the front door, followed by a woman’s desperate voice calling in a language I didn’t recognize. It was neither English nor any of the few languages I knew. The knocking moved to the side door, then the back door, as if she was circling the house, banging on every entrance. I sat frozen in bed, heart pounding, until the sounds finally stopped. When morning came, I was sure it had been a dream.

The next night, it happened again. The same voice, the same knocking, but this time the woman began to wail and plead in that unknown tongue. I wanted to call out, but my throat clamped shut. I hid under the covers like a child until it subsided. The following day, I noticed a small, carved wooden key on the mantelpiece in the hall. It didn’t fit any lock I’d tried, so I set it aside.

That evening, the knocking came earlier, while I was still awake in the kitchen. The voice was closer, and I could hear it through the walls. I armed myself with a fire poker and crept to the front door. Through the frosted glass, I saw a silhouette—a tall, gaunt figure with long hair. It wasn’t a woman; it was something else mimicking her. I retreated to my bedroom and locked the door.

I called my aunt’s neighbor, old Mrs. Hargrove, who knew the history of the house. She told me that long ago, a woman named Elsie had lived there with her husband. She had been a singer, and he had been a jealous man. One night, he locked her in the wardrobe, and she was found dead inside days later. They say her ghost knocks on doors, searching for anyone who might let her out.

I remembered the key. I took it from the mantelpiece, and with trembling hands, I approached the wardrobe in the hallway. It was a massive, antique piece with a mirror, and I’d never opened it. I inserted the key, the lock turned with a click, and I pulled the door open.

Inside, there was no space for a body—just a few old coats and a hatbox. But as I stood there, the knocking started again, this time from inside the wardrobe. The voice was no longer pleading; it was a low, guttural laugh. The door slammed shut on its own, and I felt a cold hand grip my ankle. I yanked free and ran out of the house, leaving the key inside.

I never returned to Rookwood. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that knocking at my door—and the voice, now in my own language, begging to be let out. I never answer.