The Unlocked Cupboard

We had been in the old farmhouse for just over a year when the troubles began. It was a rambling place, full of creaks and drafts, but we loved it. Our youngest, Mira, was only four, and she would often talk to her imaginary friends. At first, it was cute. But then I started hearing her at night, through the baby monitor, in a low, earnest tone, as if she were having a serious conversation with someone. When I’d go in, she’d be alone, wide-eyed, and would just say, ‘She went away when you came in.’

Then came the night of the scratching. We were in bed, the old house settling around us, when a sound started at our bedroom door. It was a slow, deliberate scratch, like fingernails dragging across the wood. My husband, Leo, got up to check. The moment his feet hit the floor, the sound stopped. He opened the door, looked out into the dark hallway, saw nothing, and came back. As soon as he was under the covers, the scratching resumed. This went on for ten agonizing minutes. Each time he moved, it stopped. Each time he settled, it started. Then, silence.

A week later, while I was out with friends, Leo called. His voice was tight. He said that after putting the kids to bed, he was in the living room when he heard a series of loud bangs coming from the hallway. It sounded like someone was slamming the doors to the bedrooms. He ran out, but everything was still. He checked on the kids; they were asleep. He checked the doors; all closed.

Later that night, after everyone was asleep, Leo got up to use the bathroom. He was mid-stream when a loud BANG hit the bathroom door, followed by a long, slow scratch down the wood, from top to bottom. He froze, his heart hammering. When he finally opened the door, nothing was there. He walked back to the bedroom, and just as he passed the closet in the hallway, another BANG shook the door. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Now, four days ago, we had just gone to bed. The house was quiet, but that felt heavy, pregnant with something. I was almost asleep when I heard a soft CLICK. It came from the bedroom closet. The old latch that we’d never fixed, that always stuck, had come undone. Leo and I looked at each other in the dim light from the window. Without a word, we both got up. Leo approached the closet, his hand shaking as he reached for the knob. I held my breath. He pulled the door open. Inside, nothing but clothes and boxes. We stood there, staring. Then, from the hallway, we heard Mira’s voice, clear and small: ‘Don’t worry, she’s just hiding.’

The police found nothing. The priest refused to come. The scratching, the bangs, the whispers—they’ve been with us ever since. And every night, I hear that click. The cupboard door unlocks by itself. And I know, one night, I’ll open it, and she’ll be there, waiting.