The Pinewood Cabinet

My first encounter with the other side came when I was six, in the autumn of 1974, in a small town called Millbrook, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Our house was a creaking Victorian relic, surrounded by a thicket of pines that seemed to swallow the light. My room was at the end of a long hallway, and beyond that was the kitchen and the parlor where my mother kept her things.

That night, I woke to a sound like a dry leaf skittering across the floor. I sat up in my bed, my heart thumping. The hallway light was on, casting a weak glow through my cracked door. I crept to the door and peered into the gloom. The parlor light was brighter, and I saw my mother sitting on the floral sofa, her back to me. She held something on her lap, a wooden board with carved letters, and her fingers were resting on a small heart-shaped pointer.

I wanted to call out, but a cold hand pressed against my shoulder, and a voice inside me whispered, ‘Hush.’ I froze, watching. Then, the pointer slid across the board, spelling out letters I couldn’t read. It moved faster and faster, and then it shot off the board, clattering against the wall. My mother didn’t flinch; her arms stayed limp at her sides, her eyes fixed ahead as if in a trance.

I stumbled back, gasping, and the hand on my shoulder vanished. I turned and ran back to my room, slamming the door. I hid under my covers, trembling. When I finally peeked out, the hallway was dark, and I heard my mother’s footsteps approaching. She opened my door, her face serene, and said, ‘I thought I heard you. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.’ She kissed my forehead, and I saw something in her eyes—a flicker of something else, like a shadow passing behind a curtain.

The next morning, the board was gone. I asked my mother about it, but she denied ever having one. ‘You had a nightmare,’ she said, but I knew what I’d seen. Over the next weeks, I noticed strange things: my mother would sometimes stare at the wall for hours, muttering words I didn’t understand. The house felt colder, and at night, I’d hear faint knocking from the walls, like something was trying to get out.

I never told anyone, not even my father. He worked late, and I was alone with my mother most evenings. One night, I woke to find her sitting on the edge of my bed. She placed a small wooden box on my lap, carved with symbols I’d never seen. ‘Inside is your inheritance,’ she whispered, her voice flat. ‘When I’m gone, you must open it.’ She clutched my hand so hard it hurt. ‘Promise me.’ I nodded, terrified.

The next day, she went into the pine forest and didn’t come back. They searched for days, but there was no trace. My father took me away to live with his sister in the city, and I never saw that house again. But I kept the box. I’ve kept it hidden for thirty years, never daring to open it.

Now, I’m standing in my own home, the box on my table. The carving on the lid seems to pulse, and I swear I hear my mother’s voice from the other side, whispering my name. I know that if I open it, I’ll be pulled into whatever she was part of. But the voice grows louder each night, and I’m not sure I can resist much longer. Tonight, I’ll open it. And I fear what I’ll find inside.