The Locked Wardrobe

I’m writing this from the ICU, if you can believe it. My name is Nora, and I’m twenty-six. I live with my partner, Tom, in a ground-floor flat in a converted Victorian asylum on the outskirts of a town called Marrowgate. The flat is beautiful, with high ceilings and original features, but it’s got a history. We knew that when we moved in. But we never expected this.

Last Tuesday, I had the day off work. Tom left for his job at a packaging warehouse at six in the morning, and I stayed in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. The night before, we’d had a huge row. He wanted to quit his job. He said it was soul-crushing, the shift’s endless, the supervisor a petty tyrant. I told him we couldn’t afford it, not with the rent and my student loans. I said, ‘Please, just stick it out until you find something else.’ He’d clammed up, gone to bed in a huff. So when I heard him come back about an hour later, I thought, Oh God, he’s quit. He’s come home to stew.

I heard his footsteps on the creaky landing, then the bedroom door opening. I decided to play asleep. I pulled the duvet up to my chin and closed my eyes, feigning deep breathing. I expected him to sigh, maybe get into bed and sulk. But instead, I heard him take off his coat—the heavy denim one he loves—and then the thud of his boots. Then the jingle of his belt. And then… the whisper of fabric. He was undressing. I heard him hang his shirt on the back of the chair. I heard his jeans fall to the floor. I heard his socks being peeled off. And then I heard the springs of the old bed as he crawled in beside me.

I stayed still, pretending. I felt the mattress dip, and I tried to make my breathing even. But then I felt a cold draft, and I heard a voice. It wasn’t Tom’s. It was low, like gravel rolling in oil, and it said, ‘Don’t move.’

My blood ran cold. My eyes were shut tight, and I was petrified. I felt a hand—not Tom’s, not warm—press against my shoulder. The fingers were long and bony, and they dug into my skin. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t open my eyes. I just lay there as the hand traced a line down my back and then stopped at my hip. And the voice whispered again, ‘Stay. Stay.’

Then I heard Tom’s real voice from the hallway. ‘Nora? You home? I forgot my lunch.’

My eyes snapped open. I was alone in the bed. The duvet was in a tangle, but no one was beside me. The room was empty. The wardrobe door, which I’d left open that morning, was now closed. Tom came in, saw my face, and asked what was wrong. I told him I’d had a nightmare. He didn’t quit, I found out; he’d just come back for his lunch. But that afternoon, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I called the landlord, who told me the building’s history. In the 1920s, it was an asylum for ‘hysterical women’. One doctor, a man named Pritchard, used to lock his patients in their rooms as ‘treatment’. He died here, in this very flat, in 1931. The landlord said, ‘Oh, if you see a tall man in a long coat, don’t worry, that’s just old Dr. Pritchard. He walks the halls sometimes. Harmless, they say.’

Harmless. I didn’t sleep that night. Tom was annoyed, called me silly, but he stayed up with me. We watched TV in the living room with the lights on. Then, at around 2 a.m., we heard the wardrobe door creak open. We both froze. The wardrobe is in our bedroom, and we were in the living room, but the sound was unmistakable. Tom went to check. He came back pale. He said, ‘It’s open, but nothing’s inside.’

But I saw something on his neck. A red mark, like a handprint. When I pointed it out, he looked in the mirror and went white. He said, ‘I feel cold.’ From that day on, things got worse. The wardrobe would open and close on its own. I started hearing voices in my head, telling me to ‘stay’. Tom started sleepwalking, always ending up in front of the wardrobe, muttering. We tried to move, but the boxes went missing, and the car wouldn’t start.

Last night, I woke up to find the wardrobe wide open, and inside, instead of clothes, there was a tunnel of complete blackness. A hand reached out, and I recognized it as the one that touched me. It pulled me in. I saw a room, like a padded cell, and a figure—a man in a long coat—standing over a bed. He turned to me, and his face was a void, but I felt him smile. He said, ‘You’ll stay with me now.’ I screamed, and I clawed, and somehow, I got out. I ran to the living room, and Tom was there, standing by the window, his eyes open but unseeing. He was whispering, ‘Stay. Stay.’

I shook him, and he snapped out of it. We grabbed our keys and ran out, leaving everything behind. We’re at a hotel now, but I’m writing this because I saw the wardrobe in the hotel room. It’s closed, but I know it’s waiting. And I hear a voice from inside, counting down. ‘Three… two… one…’