The Locked Wardrobe

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Not until the night our new house, an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, started playing tricks on us. It began with my wife, Clara, complaining that the bed was shaking at night, like someone was nudging her awake. I chalked it up to her imagination, the stress of the move, the creaks of an unfamiliar place. But then the doors started doing things that couldn’t be explained.

It was a Tuesday, just after dawn. I was in the kitchen, brewing coffee, when I heard the bedroom door click shut. I thought nothing of it until I tried to get back in to grab my jacket. The doorknob wouldn’t turn. Locked. From the inside. I called out to Clara, joking that she’d somehow managed to lock me out in her sleep. She came to the door, sleepy-eyed, and twisted the knob. It opened easily, and she laughed. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she said, half-yawning. I didn’t think much of it until later that day.

That evening, I was in the study, going over some papers. Clara was in the living room. I heard a click from the hallway, the sound of a door latch engaging. I walked out to investigate. The study door was locked. I had left it open. I unlocked it, chalking it up to the old house’s temperamental locks. But then it happened again. And again.

The pattern became maddening. Whenever I left a room, even for a moment, I’d return to find the door locked. It was as if some invisible hand was turning the deadbolt after I stepped out. I checked the locks, replaced the mechanisms, but the phenomenon persisted. I grew paranoid, sleep-deprived, starting to question my own sanity. Clara tried to comfort me, but she was just as unsettled.

Then the door to our wardrobe started locking itself. That was the one that shattered me. One night, I was getting ready for bed, and I opened the wardrobe to hang my shirt. As I did, I heard a click from inside. I froze. The wardrobe’s interior door, which we never used, was locked. It had a tiny keyhole, and I had no key. I peered through the gap, but it was dark.

The next morning, I decided to act. I called a locksmith to force the wardrobe open. When he finally got the lock off, I felt a cold dread wash over me. The wardrobe was empty, except for a small child’s wooden shoe that had been wedged in the back corner. I had no idea where it came from. Neither did Clara.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the wardrobe. Around 3 AM, I heard the click of the wardrobe door unlocking. Then, slowly, it creaked open. A faint, icy breeze drifted out. I got up, my heart pounding, and approached. Inside, the darkness seemed deeper than the room. And in the darkness, I saw a pair of small, pale eyes looking up at me.

I stumbled back, but not fast enough. A tiny, cold hand reached out and grabbed my ankle. I looked down and saw the shape of a child, crouched in the shadow, its face hidden. It pulled me closer, and I fell to my knees, unable to scream. The last thing I saw was the wooden shoe, now lying in the center of the room, as the wardrobe door slammed shut, locking me inside with whatever had been waiting all along.