Page 120 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

The wood was too close to my face.

The smell of old cedar wrapped around me before I even opened my eyes. Splintered timber. Dust. Damp fabric. Then the darkness. Not ordinary darkness. The kind that pressed against your face. The kind that breathed back.

I was seven .Curled inside the wardrobe drawer Mother called the lesson. There wasn't enough room to sit properly. My knees were folded against my chest until they ached. Every movement scraped my elbows against unfinished timber, tiny splinters pushing into my skin.

I remember knocking. At first politely. Calling out.

"Mama?"

Nothing. Then louder.

"I'm sorry."

Nothing. Hours passed. Or minutes. Time doesn't exist properly when there isn't any light. I scratched at the door until my fingernails bent backwards. I screamed until my throat tore itself raw. My fingertips bled. I licked the blood because there wasn't any water. Eventually I stopped crying. Eventually I stopped screaming.

Eventually… I started listening. The dark wasn't empty anymore. It whispered. Tiny voices. Not frightening. Not at first. They sounded...

Lonely.

Like me…

"Well," one of them sighed.

"She's staying."

Another answered.

"Guess we should keep her company."

That was the first time I heard Gerald. Or maybe Frank. Sometimes I can't remember which one arrived first. Maybe they both did. Maybe neither of them did. Maybe the dark simply needed someone to talk to.

The wardrobe door never opened from the inside. Mother opened it five days later. She said I had finally learned how to be quiet. She smiled.

I never smiled back.

Ping.

The sharp chime from my laptop ripped through the nightmare. I bolt upright in bed, dragging air into my lungs so fast it hurts. My nightshirt clung to my skin.

My hands were shaking. For one awful second, I couldn't remember where I was. Then I saw the rose curtains. The slanted ceiling. The old oak wardrobe. My cottage. Home.

"You're back," Frank murmured gently.

I hadn't even realised they were sitting on the windowsill. Gerald adjusted his tiny painted hat.

"You were making that noise again."

"What noise?"

"The one where you sound like someone drowning."

I swallowed.

"My nightmares aren't very polite."

"No," Gerald muttered.

"They're incredibly inconsiderate."