The Weeping Desk

In the summer I turned thirteen, my cousin Maggie and I spent weekends at our grandmother’s farmhouse. It was a sprawling, old place with a warped porch and a garden that had gone feral. The house itself was a labyrinth of creaking corridors, and at its heart, in the parlor, stood a desk that had been in the family for generations. It was said to have come across the Atlantic on a ship that nearly sank, and the wood was dark, almost black, with a grain that looked like the cracks in a dry riverbed. The desk had a single drawer that was always stuck, no matter how hard we pulled, and a brass nameplate that was so tarnished it was illegible.

That summer, I had a peculiar habit. I refused to close the bathroom door when I went in, no matter how many times Grandma or Maggie complained. It was a small rebellion, a way to feel in control during a time when my parents were fighting and I was shipped off to the country. So, on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, I went to the bathroom at the end of the upstairs hallway, leaving the door wide open. The bathroom was small and tiled, with a single window that looked out over the overgrown field behind the house. As I sat there, I noticed an odd smell, like damp earth and old copper, seeping in from the hallway. I shrugged it off, assuming it was just the house’s ancient plumbing.

But then I heard it: a faint, rhythmic scratching, coming from the parlor downstairs. It stopped when I paused, and started again when I made a move. I finished quickly and went to investigate. The parlor was dim, the heavy curtains half-drawn against the afternoon sun. The desk sat against the wall, its surface bare except for a small, leather-bound book that I’d never seen before. The book was covered in dust, and when I opened it, the pages were filled with cramped, spidery handwriting, the ink faded to a rusty brown. It was a diary, dated 1874, and it belonged to a woman named Emmeline, who had once lived on this very farm. The entries spoke of a deep sorrow, of a child lost to a fever, and of her own subsequent decline. The last entry was barely legible, but I could make out a single sentence: ‘I have no one left to speak to, so I will speak to the desk.’

I closed the book and looked at the desk. There was a faint shimmer in the air above the drawer, as if the heat were rising from it. I reached out and touched the drawer handle, and to my surprise, it slid open easily. Inside was a child’s locket, tarnished and tarnished, with a tiny photograph inside. The photograph was so faded I could barely make out the face, but it seemed to be a young boy with wide, dark eyes. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I quickly shut the drawer, but the drawer would not close. It slid partway, and then stopped as if something was blocking it. I pushed harder, and the drawer slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the house. A moment later, I heard a cry, muffled and distant, like a child’s sob from behind a wall.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent, but the air was heavy. I got up to get a glass of water, and as I passed the parlor, I saw a faint, blue-white light flickering from beneath the desk. I crept closer, my heart pounding. The light was emanating from the locket, which was now lying on the floor in front of the desk, its chain spooled like a snake. I picked it up, and the locket was warm to the touch. I opened it, and the photograph inside was no longer faded. It showed a boy with dark eyes, and behind him, a shadowy figure with a hand on his shoulder. The figure seemed to be pointing at me. I dropped the locket, and it hit the floor with a clatter. The light vanished, and the house was plunged into darkness.

The next morning, I told Grandma what I had seen, expecting her to dismiss it as a child’s fancy. But her face went pale, and she whispered, ‘So it’s true. I always wondered why that desk felt so cold.’ She then told me a story that had been passed down in her family. Emmeline had been her great-great-grandmother, and after her son died, she went mad with grief. She spent her days writing in that diary, and her nights sitting at the desk, speaking to the wood. When she died, the desk stayed, and the family always swore that if the drawer was opened, Emmeline’s ghost would become restless, and the child in the locket would return to take a playmate.

From that day on, I never left the bathroom door open again. And I avoided the parlor as much as I could. But whenever I passed that desk, I would feel a cold spot, and sometimes, just out of the corner of my eye, I would see a small, shadowy figure standing beside it, as if waiting. The locket disappeared, but the desk remained, and the drawer, no matter how many times we tried, would never open again. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I would hear a faint, childlike whisper, a name I didn’t recognize, and I would pull the covers over my head and pray that Emmeline had found a new friend.