The Man in the Linen Closet

It was the summer I turned eleven, and we’d just moved into the old Hollis house on Birchwood Lane. My parents called it a ‘fixer-upper,’ which meant the wallpaper was peeling and the floors creaked like a ship at sea. That day, my mom and younger sister were helping our neighbor Mrs. Kravitz with her garden, and my dad had taken my older brother to the hardware store. I was alone, which was a rare and thrilling thing.

I had claimed the den as my territory. It was the only room with a TV that got decent reception, and I’d been sprawled on the scratchy floral couch watching a marathon of old creature features. But the static-filled signal began to give me a headache, so I decided to switch to the TV in my parents’ bedroom. Their room was at the end of the upstairs hallway, past the linen closet. The closet door was always ajar, a dark gap in the paneled wall. I never paid it much mind, though there was something about it that made me hurry past.

As I stepped off the last stair and into the hallway, I noticed the linen closet door was open wider than usual, nearly a foot. A faint, sweet smell drifted out, like rotting fruit mixed with dust. I shrugged, assuming Mom had left it that way, and took a step toward my parents’ door. That’s when I saw the boy.

He was crouched in the closet, half-hidden by the shadow of folded sheets. He was maybe six, with dark hair that looked matted and a pale, pinched face. He wore a red t-shirt that was too big for him, and his bare feet were filthy. He was staring at me with wide, wet eyes, and his lips were moving, but no sound came out.

I froze, my heart doing a strange little flutter. ‘Hey, are you lost?’ I asked, my voice coming out squeakier than I’d like. He didn’t answer, just kept mumbling silently. He pointed at me, then at the floor, then made a shooing motion with his hand. It looked like he was telling me to go away.

A shiver ran down my spine. I took a step back, meaning to call for my mom, but then I remembered she wasn’t home. The boy’s lips finally formed words, and a scratchy whisper came out, like leaves scraping pavement. ‘Don’t open the door.’

I blinked, and he was gone. The closet was just a closet again, filled with towels and sheets. I laughed nervously, convincing myself it was a trick of the light or my imagination. I walked to my parents’ door, but my hand hovered over the knob. I had an overwhelming urge to check the bathroom at the end of the hall. It was a small, windowless room with a medicine cabinet that had a crack in the mirror. I always hated it.

I shook my head and pushed open my parents’ door. The TV was on, showing static. I frowned; I hadn’t turned it on. I went to turn it off, but as I reached for the knob, the static swirled into a shape. It was the boy again, but now he was on the screen, his face pressed against the glass of a window. He was crying, and behind him, I could see a figure. A tall, thin man with no face, just smooth skin where his features should be. The man was reaching for the boy.

The boy turned from the window and looked at me. He shook his head violently, mouthing, ‘Don’t open the door.’ Then the screen went black.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I backed out of the room, my eyes darting to the linen closet. The door was now closed, but there was a faint scratching sound coming from behind it, like fingernails on wood. I knew, with a certainty that made my blood cold, that the man was in there. And he was waiting for me to open the door.

I took the stairs two at a time, bursting out the front door and running to Mrs. Kravitz’s house. My mom was there, her hands covered in soil. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, seeing my face. I told her everything, the boy, the man, the closet. She smiled, a little worried, and said, ‘Honey, there’s no boy. You just have an active imagination. Sometimes the old house plays tricks on you.’

But when we went back inside, the linen closet door was wide open, and inside, on the shelf, was a child’s drawing. It was a picture of a stick figure with a red shirt, and next to it, a tall black figure with no face. Underneath, in shaky crayon letters, were the words: ‘He lives in the walls. Don’t let him out.’

I never opened that closet again. But sometimes, late at night, I hear the scraping, and I see a small shadow in the hallway, and I think of the boy. I wonder if he’s still watching, still warning. Because I know that man is still waiting, patient as the dark, for someone to make the mistake I almost did.