The Disappearing Things
At first, it was the gloves. Then, the keychain. Next, an old scarf. She could have brushed it off—blamed it on age, forgetfulness exhaustion. But when the sixth thing vanished that month—a sewing box that had always sat on the dresser—Margaret Whitaker finally snapped. She sank into her armchair with a heavy sigh, her fingers trembling, not with fear but with quiet fury. Someone—or something—was unraveling the fabric of her life, thread by thread.
“Fine,” she said aloud, voice sharp as a blade. “Let’s play.”
The flat was silent. Only the antique clock in the hallway ticked stubbornly on, measuring time with relentless precision. Margaret had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had left suddenly—right there in the sitting room, with a half-drunk cup of tea in his hand and an unfinished joke on his lips. After he was gone, she changed nothing: the same worn sofa, the same creaking chair, even his favourite mug remained—its faded “World’s Best Grandad” text still faintly visible.
Her daughter visited twice a year, bringing groceries, scolding her for not answering calls, then rushing off again. Her words were clipped, squeezed between work, family, endless responsibilities. Margaret never resented it. She understood. Her daughter had a life—mortgages, children, deadlines. So she accepted the bags of tinned goods and prescriptions, smiled awkwardly, hugged stiffly, then stood in the empty hallway long after the door clicked shut, listening as the silence pressed in.
But a month ago, something strange had started. Not all at once, not violently—more like someone carefully rearranging the edges of her world. First came the scent—something herbal, faint, like dried lavender tucked in a forgotten corner of her grandmother’s cottage. Then the drafts. Curtains shivered when no window was open. And the shadows—shifting along the walls without reason, as if something unseen moved just out of sight. The house breathed, but not with her rhythm.
Margaret said nothing. She just sat by the window more often, legs tucked under her, cold mug in hand, watching snow dust the courtyard below. Memories surfaced: her father teaching her to ride a bike, steadying the seat until she found her balance. Winters in the ‘80s, huddled with her husband around a space heater when the power cut out, laughing as they tried to toast bread on its scalding lid. The night they bought their first telly, arguing half the evening over which channel to watch before falling asleep tangled together.
Then things began vanishing. Small things first—a button, a handkerchief, an old brooch. Then bigger ones: her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, an address book. Always without explanation, as if some unseen hand was plucking pieces of her life away, methodical but persistent.
“Where are you hiding?” she asked the emptiness one evening. Her voice echoed louder than she expected, hanging in the air like a challenge.
Then, from the kitchen: “Here.”
A child’s voice—soft, unthreatening, but entirely *other*. Real enough to send a chill down her spine.
She didn’t run to it. She made tea. Sat. Watched the steam curl, as if answers hid there. Then she stood, squared her shoulders, and walked in. The door creaked like hesitation. Everything was in place—the checkered tablecloth, the hanging copper pots—but the air hummed. Silence wasn’t empty now; it was *waiting*, breath held. Something warm. Something close.
“Who are you?” she demanded, firm but unafraid, as if she already knew no harm would come.
No reply. Just the faintest groan of floorboards—a step taken, then halted.
The next morning, her recipe notebook was gone. That evening, returning from the balcony, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no name. Only two words scrawled in uneven script: *”I’m here.”*
After that, they lived together. The presence lingered—in shadows, in curtain tremors, in the whisper of settling walls. Margaret moved through daylight, the hiss of the kettle, the clink of spoons. They never spoke. Then one day, opening the cupboard under the stairs, she found every missing item—neatly stacked, dust-free, as if carefully kept.
And she *knew*. This wasn’t an intruder. It was *her*. The self she’d buried—when her husband died, when her daughter grew distant, when days blurred into grey sameness. The woman who once sang folk songs, danced to the radio, scribbled poetry on scrap paper and tucked it away. The one who’d faded, slowly, with every *”later”*, every *”not now.”*
Margaret wrapped the scarf around her shoulders. It smelled of rosemary and time. She stepped onto the balcony. Lit a cigarette—first in a decade. Smoke curled into the sky, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the years of restraint.
Snow fell below. Soft. Weightless. In its glow, city lights shimmered like whispers: *”I waited for you.”*
*Where were you hiding?* she thought. Then smiled. *Ah. There you are.*
