The Tulipwood Bureau

I never thought much about the bureau when my ex-sister-in-law, Mira, offered it to me after she and my brother, Simon, moved to the coast. They’d embraced a path I didn’t fully understand—something about the old ways, the earth, and the spirits that linger. To each their own, I figured. The piece was a beauty: dark tulipwood, carved with twisting vines and strange blossoms, a little too ornate for my trailer, but I loved it. It settled into the back corner of my bedroom like it had always been there.

My mother never liked coming near that side of the trailer. She’d walk into my room, take one look at the bureau, and get a tight-lipped frown. ‘It gives me the heebie-jeebies, honey,’ she’d say. So I hung a faded floral blanket across a string to partition the space, hoping it would ease her mind. It didn’t. She still refused to sit on the bed, always standing stiff as a board until we moved to the kitchen table.

Odd things started happening soon after. At night, my father’s old computer in the living room would power on with a whir, the screen flickering to life even though the power strip was off. The lights in my room would dim for a second, then brighten, always when I was half-asleep, blinking against the dark. I chalked it up to faulty wiring, a draft, my imagination playing tricks. But then, a few weeks ago, I took a photo of the bureau’s open drawers—just to capture its craftsmanship for a friend. When I looked at the image, there they were: four or five glowing orbs, hovering over the clothes. They were soft, white, like dust caught in a flashlight, but they pulsed. I snapped another photo immediately. Nothing. Just empty space. My hands shook as I deleted the first picture.

Last week, the real trouble began. I woke before dawn, the room still gray and silent. My ‘dip tin tower’—a stack of empty tins I used for art supplies—was toppled over, scattered across the floor. My cat, Biscuit, liked to sleep on top of it, but he was curled at my feet, not even looking at the mess. I sighed, got up, and rebuilt the tower. A few minutes later, as I was brushing my teeth, I heard a clatter from my room. I rushed in to find one tin had been knocked out of the middle of the stack, as if by an unseen hand, and had fallen to the carpet. The rest of the tower remained perfectly intact. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

That afternoon, my family was in the living room, assembling a new TV stand. I was in my room, trying to convince myself it was all coincidence. I opened the top drawer of the bureau to grab a sweater, and the air inside felt colder, and I could have sworn I saw a faint, dark shape shifting in the carved wood’s grain—a face, maybe, or an eye, watching me. I slammed the drawer shut. My mother called out, asking if I was alright. I said yes, but my voice cracked.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the bureau, its silhouette monstrous against the pale light from the window. I remembered Mira’s hand on my shoulder when she gave it to me, a strange smile on her lips. ‘It’ll keep you company,’ she’d said, and I’d laughed. Now, I heard a faint rustling from inside the drawer, like fabric shifting. Then, a soft, dry cough. Not human. I pulled the blanket over my head, my heart thudding. The rustling stopped.

In the morning, I called Mira. She didn’t seem surprised. ‘Oh, that old thing,’ she said lightly. ‘It belonged to a woman who lived alone in a cabin out in the woods. She died there. The bureau was the only piece they saved. Just remember, you can’t get rid of it. It’ll always find its way back.’ I hung up, staring at the bureau. I haven’t told my family. I don’t know what to do. But last night, I woke to find all five drawers flung open, and something had written in the dust on the mirror—’I like it here.’

I’m afraid to sleep. I’m afraid to leave. And worst of all, I’m starting to believe that Mira was right: the bureau isn’t just a piece of furniture. It’s a door—and something on the other side is knocking.