The Lodger in the Linen Closet

The summer I turned nineteen, my grandmother’s sprawling Victorian bed-and-breakfast in the fog-choked hills of northern Vermont became my prison. My mother, a woman who found relaxation in meticulous planning, had booked us a three-week stay to ‘reconnect with our roots.’ My sister, Chloe, was excited, but I, Lena, had only the dread of long, silent hours and the perpetual smell of mothballs.

The inn, called The Gable House, was a labyrinth of dusty corridors and creaking floorboards. Our room, the Rose Suite, was at the end of a long hall, its windows overlooking a tangle of overgrown rhododendrons. On our second night, after a dinner of lukewarm soup and stale bread (Grandmother Nellie insisted on ‘rustic simplicity’), I ventured out to find the bathroom, which was down the hall and around a corner.

The hallway was lit by a single, weak bulb that flickered, casting dance-like shadows on the peeling wallpaper. As I passed the linen closet, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. A cold draft, unnaturally sharp, seeped from the gap. I remember thinking, ‘Odd, the window at the end of the hall is closed.’ I pushed the door open fully, expecting stacks of neatly folded sheets and towels. Instead, I saw a deep, impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow the light from the hall. A faint, sickly-sweet smell, like rotting flowers, wafted out. I felt a sudden, irrational urge to step inside, a pull like a current dragging me forward. I caught myself, my hand gripping the doorframe, and slammed the door shut, my heart hammering.

I didn’t mention it to Mom or Chloe. I told myself it was just my imagination, the old house playing tricks on me. But that night, I dreamt of a tall, thin figure standing at the foot of my bed, its face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, its form a nebulous gray. It said nothing, just pointed a long, bony finger toward the door. I woke in a cold sweat, my throat tight.

The next evening, we had a ‘family game night’ in the parlor. Mom was trying to get Chloe to play Scrabble, but Chloe was scrolling through her phone. I was staring at the fireplace, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched. The grandfather clock in the corner, which had been silent all day, suddenly chimed nine times, even though it was just past eight. In the ensuing silence, I heard a distinct, rhythmic scrape from upstairs, like a heavy object being dragged across the floor above us.

‘I think we have mice,’ Mom said, not looking up from her tiles.

‘That’s not mice,’ I whispered. I stood up, my legs shaking. ‘I’m going to check.’

I climbed the creaky stairs, each step groaning under my weight. The scraping had stopped, but a new sound reached my ears: a low, muffled hum, like a distant, mournful song. It led me back to the linen closet. The door was now fully open, and emanating from within was a faint, greenish glow. I approached, my heart pounding against my ribs. As I peered inside, I saw a long, dark corridor that shouldn’t have existed. It stretched far beyond the physical dimensions of the house, lined with doors on either side, each slightly ajar. The humming got louder, and I could make out a voice, a woman’s voice, singing an old lullaby I vaguely remembered from my childhood. The voice seemed to be coming from the last door at the end of the corridor.

I took a step forward. Then another. The air grew colder, and the smell of rotting flowers intensified. I reached the last door. It was made of black wood, with a small, circular window covered in grime. I wiped it with my sleeve and peered inside. The room was dimly lit, but I could see a figure hunched over a cradle, rocking it gently. The figure wore a long gray dress, and its head was bowed so I couldn’t see its face. It was humming that lullaby, a tune that seemed to seep into my bones.

‘Hello?’ I called out, my voice trembling. The figure stopped humming. Slowly, it lifted its head, and I saw that its face was not a face at all, but a smooth, blank expanse of gray flesh, with only a vertical slit where a mouth should be. The slit opened, and a low, guttural voice said, ‘You’ve come to take my place.’

A hand, thin and gray, reached out and pressed against the window from the inside. The glass cracked. I stumbled back, but the corridor behind me was gone. I was trapped in that endless hallway, the doors now all wide open, revealing dark, empty rooms. The figure began to grin, its mouth stretching impossibly wide, filled with needle-sharp teeth. It spoke again, with a mocking sweetness, ‘The linen closet is always open at The Gable House.’

I screamed and ran, but there was no way out. I felt the cold, grasping fingers on my neck, and then I was yanked backward, into the dark.

I woke on the floor of the linen closet, the door closed in front of me. I was shaking, covered in dust, my throat sore. I scrambled to my feet and burst out into the hallway, gasping for breath. The hall was quiet, the wall sconces flickering warmly. I ran back to the Rose Suite and found Mom and Chloe asleep in their beds, as if nothing had happened. They insisted I must have sleepwalked and fallen.

But I know what I saw. And the worst part is, when I looked in the mirror the next morning, there was a thin, gray handprint on my neck, just above my collarbone. And in the middle of the night, I still hear that lullaby, whispering from the linen closet, waiting for me to return.