The Workshop’s Apprentice

In the autumn of 1987, I lived with my wife and three daughters in a quiet suburb of Dayton. My father, a retired carpenter, had a workshop at the end of our cul-de-sac. My eldest, Emily, was seven and practically lived there. She loved the smell of sawdust and the way my father’s hands moved over wood. He’d give her a small hammer and a box of nails, and she’d pretend to build things while he worked on his latest project. They were inseparable.

A few years prior, my father had a stroke that left his left side weak, but his mind remained sharp. Then came the diabetes and the emphysema. His breathing grew labored, but he still shuffled to the workshop every morning. Emily would wait for him at the door, and he’d greet her with a gruff ‘Morning, partner.’ It was their ritual.

Then the letters started. I found them in his workshop, tucked under the workbench. They were addressed to Emily in his shaky handwriting. I never read them, but I saw the envelopes. My mother said he was writing stories for her, something to remember him by. I didn’t question it; I was just glad he had something to occupy his time.

His health deteriorated quickly. By Halloween, he was bedridden. Emily would sit by his bed, reading to him from his old carpentry manuals, or just holding his hand. He died in his sleep on a rainy Tuesday. I never saw Emily cry; she just went quiet.

At the funeral, she clutched a small wooden box he’d made her. When we got home, she disappeared into the workshop. I found her sitting on his stool, the box open in her lap. Inside were dozens of letters, each one a chapter of a story he’d been writing for her. She began to read them aloud, one by one, as if he were there.

The story was about a young girl who discovers a secret workshop in the woods, where a kindly old man teaches her to build magical things. Each chapter mirrored their own time together. The final letter, dated the day before he died, told her that the workshop would always be there for her, if she knew where to look. It said, ‘You have the gift now.’

I thought it was his way of saying goodbye, a beautiful metaphor. But Emily took it literally. She started spending more and more time in the workshop, sometimes late into the night. I’d find her there, surrounded by tools, humming his little tune. She’d talk about ‘Papa’ as if he were still beside her, showing her how to measure, how to sand, how to bring something to life.

Her smiles returned, but they were different. Too bright, too focused. She’d show me little figurines she’d carved from scrap wood, each one perfect, like they’d been made by a master craftsman. I asked her who taught her those techniques. She just smiled and said, ‘Papa did.’

One night, I woke to the sound of hammering. I went to the workshop and found Emily with a lantern, building a small birdhouse. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. ‘He’s in here, Daddy,’ she said, pointing to the corner. At first, I saw nothing, but then I noticed the air there was thicker, shimmering slightly. I felt a cold draft, and for a moment, I smelled sawdust and tobacco.

Emily went on, ‘He says he’s proud of you. And he wants you to know that he’s okay.’ I backed away, terror prickling my skin. But Emily just laughed, a light, innocent sound. ‘Don’t be scared, Daddy. He’s not going to hurt us.’

I tried to put a stop to it, but Emily was adamant. She said Papa was teaching her to be a woodworker, just like him. And he wanted us to know a secret: he had built a hidden door in the workshop, leading to a place where he could watch over us. She took me to the back wall, behind the rack of tools, and pushed a knot in the wood. A section of the wall swung open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

‘Are you coming?’ she asked, her eyes shining with joy.

I hesitated, my heart hammering. But something in her face compelled me to follow. We descended into the dampness, the air thick with the smell of rot and old things. At the bottom, a single bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating a room that was not part of my father’s workshop. It was larger, older, with rough-hewn walls of stone. In the center stood a workbench, covered in strange tools, and on a wall hung a massive clock, its hands frozen at midnight.

Emily walked to the bench and picked up a tool. It was a thin metal rod, ending in a sharp point. ‘Papa said this is the last tool he made,’ she said. ‘He said it’s the one that will wake the workshop.’

I took the rod from her, inspecting it. It was warm to the touch, humming faintly. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘He said the workshop is a door. And on the other side is a place where all his stories live. He wants me to be the keeper of that door, to finish what he started.’

I laughed nervously. ‘Emily, that’s just a story.’

She shook her head, her face serious. ‘No, Daddy. He’s waiting for me. He says it’s time.’

I grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs. I sealed the hidden door with wood and nails, but every night, I found scratches on the new boards, as if something were trying to get out. Emily would sit in the workshop, watching the wall, humming that same tune. She’d whisper to me, ‘He’s not gone, Daddy. He’s just… on the other side.’

One day, I came home to find her missing. I ran to the workshop. The boards were splintered, the door ajar. I descended the stairs, my flashlight flickering. The workbench was bare, but the clock now read 12:01. There was no sign of Emily, except for a small wooden birdhouse she’d made, sitting on the bench with a note inside: ‘Papa took me to finish the story. I’ll be back for you when it’s time.’

I don’t know where she is now. I check the workshop every day, hoping she’ll come back. But the clock keeps ticking, and the workshop is always warm, as if someone had just been working there. Sometimes, I think I hear her laughter in the creak of the walls. And I know, with a certainty that chills my blood, that my father’s stories were not just stories. They were blueprints for something darker, and my daughter is now part of that blueprint, completing his final, terrible creation.