The Vanishing Press

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not the usual mustiness of the apartment, but something sharper, like ozone after a storm, tinged with a metallic undertone. It clung to the air of the hallway, and I paused, sniffing, but the source was nowhere to be found. It was two weeks after I moved into the old building on Maple Street, in the unit the landlord had called ‘the quiet one’ with a wink. I should have taken that as a warning.

My name is Eleanor. I’m a book restorer, and my livelihood depends on precision and unwavering attention to detail. So when I went to press a silk scarf for a client’s donation event, I expected to find my compact ironing board right where I always kept it: in the narrow closet by the entrance, propped against the back wall. It was an antique, a blue metal board with a scorch mark shaped like a sideways heart, a relic from my grandmother. It had been a constant in every apartment I’d lived in, a stubborn piece of my history. But when I slid the closet door open that afternoon, the board was gone. The iron, a heavy steel thing, still sat on its shelf, but the board’s usual spot was empty. I blinked, ran my hand along the wall, felt the faint indentations left by its legs, but there was nothing else. I checked behind the coats, under the vacuum cleaner, even in the bathroom, as if it had somehow migrated. Nothing.

I have a ritual for preparing my work: I set up the board only in my small kitchen, the only space with enough counter length. I don’t like using it elsewhere; it feels wrong, like eating off a book. But with the board missing, and a deadline for a delicate restoration looming, I had to improvise. I cleared the kitchen table, covered it with a thick towel, and ironed the scarf flat. It worked, but the process felt unsettling, as if I was performing a task in the wrong order. The next morning, I called the landlord, a taciturn man named Mr. Dvorak, and asked if he’d had the apartment inspected. He grumbled that the building’s pipes were old, but that no one had been inside. When I mentioned the missing board, he let out a short laugh and said, ‘Things come and go in that unit.’ Then he hung up.

That’s when the second incident occurred. I was cataloging a set of 19th-century botanical prints in my living room when I heard a faint, rhythmic thud from the hallway—like something heavy being dropped, over and over. I tiptoed to the door, peered through the peephole, and saw nothing. The hallway was empty, lit by the dim fluorescent light. I opened the door, and the smell hit me again, stronger this time. The air was thick, almost greasy, and I felt a pressure in my ears. I stepped out, and the floorboards creaked under my weight. I walked to the closet door, which was ajar. I knew I’d closed it. I pulled it open fully, and there, leaning against the back wall, was the ironing board. It looked exactly as I remembered, but its surface was warm to the touch, as if it had just been used. On the floor beside it was a small, wrinkled photograph, face down. I flipped it over. It was a picture of me, from my high school graduation, with my grandmother standing behind me, both of us smiling. I hadn’t seen that photo in years; I’d assumed it was lost.

I didn’t tell anyone about the photograph’s reappearance. I put the board back in its place, but now I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That evening, I decided to wash the board, thinking maybe it had been contaminated with something. I took it into the bathroom and laid it in the tub, running hot water over it. As the water hit the metal, a hiss rose, and a thin wisp of steam curled up—but it didn’t smell like steam. It smelled of camphor and burnt paper. The water in the tub turned a murky gray, and I could swear I saw something like ink swirls forming patterns: faces, hollow-eyed, mouths open. I yanked the board out, dried it, and put it back in the closet, resisting the urge to examine it further.

That night, I woke to a sound like a fabric tearing, then a regular tapping, tick-tick, tick-tick, as if something was being pressed repeatedly. I got up, my heart thumping, and crept to the kitchen. The light was on, though I knew I’d turned it off. There, on the table, was the ironing board, set up, with the iron resting on it. And on the board, there was a shirt—a man’s dress shirt, crisp, with no wrinkles, but the fabric was stained a dark brown, as if soaked in dried blood. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. I hadn’t brought my ironing board out, and I don’t own any men’s shirts.

I left the apartment that night, stayed in a hotel. The next morning, I returned with a plan: I would rid myself of the board. I wrapped it in a heavy canvas sack, drove twenty miles to a dumpster behind a closed factory, and threw it in. I felt a weird relief, like shedding a skin. But when I got back to my apartment, the board was leaning against my living room wall, the canvas sack gone. On the board, there was a new photograph: this time, it was me, asleep in my bed, taken from an angle that suggested the photographer had been standing in my closet. I tore it to shreds.

I called Mr. Dvorak again, demanding answers. He sighed and said, ‘There was a woman before you, in that unit. She was a seamstress, used to iron in the kitchen. She died in there—heart attack, they said, but some said she was murdered. Her ironing board was never found.’ He paused, then added, ‘But sometimes, you can hear the iron hissing.’ I hung up. That night, I didn’t sleep in my bed. I sat on the floor of the living room, facing the door, and watched the closet. The door slowly swung open, and I could see the board, standing upright, its metal legs glinting. From where I sat, I could have sworn it was steaming, and in the steam, I saw a woman’s silhouette, hunched over, pressing down with an iron that wasn’t there. She turned her head—or the board did—and I saw that her face was a blank expanse of scorched metal, and her mouth, if it was a mouth, was a long thin line, like a crease. She didn’t speak, but I heard a whisper that wasn’t a voice: ‘Press.’

I fled that night, leaving everything behind. I moved to a new city, a new apartment, and bought a new ironing board, plastic and modern. But yesterday, I found it in my closet again, old and blue, with the heart-shaped scorch mark. And there was a note pinned to it, handwritten in a shaky script: ‘You forgot your work.’ I have not touched it. I cannot bring myself to. I only wonder how long it will be before it comes to my table, demanding I press that which should never be unfolded.