The Thumping in the Drawers

The old farmhouse we’d rented for the autumn had a way of magnifying every creak and groan, but tonight, the silence was a heavy blanket. My laptop screen cast a pale glow on the kitchen table where I hunched over a stack of research notes, the only light in the house except for the faint moonbeam cutting through the dusty window. From my chair, I could look down the narrow hallway past my daughter’s bedroom to the small room at the end that served as our study. I’d turned off the radio and the TV, as always, to focus, and the quiet was so complete that I could hear the mice scratching in the walls.

My daughter, Emily, was asleep in her room, her door slightly ajar. In there, she had an old oak wardrobe, one of those massive things with two tall doors and a row of deep drawers at the bottom. The bottom drawer on the left was stuck, swollen with damp, and we’d never been able to open it more than a few inches. It was just a piece of furniture we’d nearly left behind when we moved, but Emily loved the way it smelled.

I was halfway through a paragraph on dusty old treaties when the banging started. It wasn’t the random knock of a settling house or the thump of a cat jumping off a bed. This was rhythmic, deliberate: *thump-thump-thump, pause, thump-thump-thump*. The sound came from Emily’s room. My first thought was the old tomcat, Barnaby, who was fat and clumsy and often got himself into tight spots. But Barnaby was lying on the couch behind me, purring like a motor. The other cat, a sleek black thing, was curled on a chair in the corner. So who or what was making that noise?

I set down my pen and listened. The banging continued, steady and urgent. I stood up and walked to the hallway. The door to Emily’s room was open, and I could see the wardrobe in the dim light. The left bottom drawer, the stuck one, was moving. It was rattling against its frame, as if something inside was trying to push it open. The sound was loud, far too loud for a drawer, and it vibrated through the floorboards. A cold draft wafted from the room, carrying a faint smell of damp wood and dust. I called out, ‘Emily, are you okay?’ No answer. I stepped closer, my heart thudding in my chest.

The drawer was shaking now, the wood groaning. I reached out to touch the brass handle, but I hesitated. That drawer had been stuck for months. I remembered trying to pry it open when we first moved in, thinking we might find old clothes or blankets, but it wouldn’t budge. Now it was jerking as if something inside was throwing itself against the panels. My instinct was to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. The banging grew faster, more frantic, and then stopped abruptly.

Silence. I swallowed. ‘Hello?’ I whispered. Nothing. I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes on the wardrobe. In the kitchen, the clock ticked. Then, from the drawer, I heard a scraping sound, like fingernails dragging across wood. And then a low, muffled voice, so faint I thought I was imagining it: ‘Let me out.’ It was a child’s voice, but not Emily’s. It had a hollow, echoing quality, as if it came from a deep pit.

I ran to Emily’s room and threw the door open. She was lying in her bed, undisturbed, her breathing even. The wardrobe stood silent now, the drawer motionless. I knelt and peered into the gap between the drawer and the frame, but it was too dark to see anything. I forced a shaky laugh. ‘It’s just the house settling,’ I told myself. But I knew it wasn’t.

The next night, I was in the study again, trying to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept glancing down the hall, dreading what I might hear. At 11:30 exactly, the banging started again, this time from the other drawer, the bottom right. It was even louder, and this time it didn’t stop. I got up and walked to the hall, my legs weak. Emily’s door was wide open, and the wardrobe was in plain sight. The drawers were now both shaking, the knobs rattling. And the voice was clearer now: two voices, whispering together: ‘Let us out. We want to play.’

I called the landlord the next morning. He laughed when I told him about the banging. ‘Ah, that old wardrobe. I told the previous tenants not to keep it. It was my grandmother’s. She used to lock her children in it as punishment. One of them suffocated in there, a little boy, Thomas. The other, his sister, went mad and hung herself from the beam in the barn. They say their souls are trapped in it, knocking to get out.’ He paused. ‘But don’t worry, they’re harmless. Just ignore them.’

But they weren’t harmless. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening. At 3 AM, I heard Emily’s bedroom door creak, and then the sound of small footsteps padding down the hall. I sat up, expecting to see her, but the hallway was empty. Then the wardrobe door in my room creaked open on its own. I had one in my room too, a smaller one, but I’d never used it. From inside, I saw two faint shadows, like dark stains, sliding out. They moved across the floor, leaving wet trails, and I smelled the stench of rot.

They climbed onto the bed, two shapes with hollow eyes and mouths open in silent screams. They leaned over me, and their breath was like cold earth. One reached out a trembling hand and touched my cheek. It was ice cold. ‘Why did you lock us in?’ they whispered. ‘We were good. We were good.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

When I awoke, it was morning. The sun streamed through the window, and the wardrobe was closed. I lay there, drenched in sweat, and I knew I had to leave. I packed a bag and woke Emily. We were out of the house by noon. As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the house shrink, but I swear I saw the curtains in my bedroom window move, and a small face pressed against the glass.

It’s been a week now. We’re staying at a motel. But last night, I heard a thumping from the closet in our motel room. And when I opened the door, I saw the same two drawers, now somehow built into the wall, and they were shaking.