The Slide of the Pallet

At my age, unless the radio hums a tune I half-remember or the clock glows a number that means something, I drift through days like a leaf on a pond. My phone buzzes with reminders for birthdays and appointments, but even those feel like foreign languages. I’ve told folks, ‘I don’t have a memory anymore, just a forgettery.’ That’s why what happened on Sunday feels so sharp in my mind, because it refused to be forgotten.

My husband, Leo, and I were settled in our usual spots in the sunroom, which we called ‘the computer nook.’ He was watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures, and I was tapping out a letter to a pen pal in Norway. The only sound was the soft burble of the fish tank in the corner and the occasional click of my keyboard. Then, from the hallway that led to the basement, came a sound that made both of us jump—a low, grinding scrape, like something heavy and wooden being dragged across the concrete floor.

Leo shot up, his chair screeching back. ‘What the heck was that?’ He went to the hallway, peered down the stairs, but the light was off. He flipped it on, and the bare bulb revealed nothing but dust motes. I followed him, my heart pattering. We had no wood down there, just old boxes of Christmas decorations and a broken treadmill. But my ears insisted it had been wood, or something like it. Leo shrugged and said it was probably the house settling. I nodded, but I didn’t believe it.

The next morning, Monday, I went down to fetch a jar of preserves from the storage shelf. That’s when I saw it—a rough wooden pallet that had never been there before, leaning against the wall next to the water heater. It was old, splintered, with faint markings that looked like faded numbers. I called up to Leo, but he was on a call and waved me off. I touched the wood. It was cold, and I felt a vibration, like a low hum, deep in my palm. I pulled my hand back, my skin crawling.

By Wednesday, the pallet had moved. It now lay flat on the floor, two feet closer to the basement stairs. I told Leo, who laughed. ‘You’re imagining things, Clara. Maybe you moved it when you were down there.’ But I hadn’t touched it after that first time. That night, I woke to a soft scraping sound. I lay still, listening. It came from the basement, rhythmic, like something being dragged in slow, deliberate strokes. I shook Leo, but he just grumbled, ‘It’s a raccoon or something. Go back to sleep.’ I didn’t sleep.

Friday morning, I decided to get rid of the pallet. I put on gloves, went down, and grabbed the edge to drag it out to the curb. As soon as my fingers closed on it, a wave of dizziness hit me. The basement flickered, a cold wind blew, and I saw a room—a different place. It was a workshop, lit by a single swinging bulb. A man sat at a bench, his back to me, sanding a piece of wood. He was muttering, ‘She won’t find it. She won’t.’ He turned, and his face was empty—no eyes, just shadows. I screamed and let go. The pallet clattered to the floor. Leo came running down, found me trembling, and finally took me seriously. He called a priest, but Father Mike only prayed and promised to check the house.

On Saturday, the pallet was gone. We searched everywhere. Leo said, ‘See? It must have been a prank. Maybe those neighborhood kids.’ But I knew it was something else. That night, as I closed my eyes, I heard the scrape again, but this time it was inside my head, and I saw the workshop again. The man was carving a name into a piece of wood—my name. ‘Clara,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve kept your place.’

Sunday morning, we went to church, hoping for comfort. When we came home, the front door was ajar. We entered cautiously. In the living room, our antique grandfather clock, which hadn’t worked in years, was swinging its pendulum, and the wood of the base was splintered, as if something had been dragged against it. On the floor lay a single wooden splinter, with the letter ‘C’ carved into it. I burst into tears. Leo held me, but his face was pale. Then we heard it—a low groan, and the sound of wood scraping against wood, coming from the hallway that leads to the basement. But we didn’t go down. We called the police, but they found nothing. The splinter, though, I kept in my pocket.

Now, it’s Monday again. The calendar says so. But I don’t trust it. Because every time I close my eyes, I see that man in the workshop, and I feel the pallet sliding, sliding, closer to me. I think it’s not a pallet. It’s a door. And he’s on the other side, pushing it open. Leo says I’m exhausted, that I need to rest. He bought me new glasses and a calendar that flips the page itself. But I know what I heard. I know what I saw. And I’m terrified that one morning, I’ll wake up in that workshop, and there won’t be any way back.