Nina Petrovna stood by the window, her palm pressed against the cold glass, watching as old Tom the caretaker raked the last golden leaves from the pavement. October had been a dreary month, and her mood matched the weather—grey and damp.
“Mum, are you at the window again?” Katherine stepped into the room, a woman nearing forty, her voice laced with weariness. “Would you like some tea?”
“I would.” Nina didn’t turn, her gaze still fixed outside. “Katie dear, did you hear that tapping in the storage cupboard? Last night and again this morning.”
Katherine frowned, setting the kettle on the stove. “Probably mice. Or the pipes—this building’s from the sixties, everything creaks. Don’t dwell on it.”
“No, not mice. Mice scurry. This was a proper knock, as if someone were inside.” Nina turned, her eyes searching her daughter’s face. “Shall we look?”
“We looked yesterday! It’s just old things in there—Dad’s tools, jars of preserves. You’re still shaken from the hospital.”
Nina sighed deeply. A month ago, she’d been admitted with heart trouble, and now Katherine hovered like a mother hen, refusing to leave her alone. She’d even moved in, taking leave from work, and Nina couldn’t help feeling like a burden.
“Katie, love, go home. I’m fine. And Edward must miss you.”
“Edward will manage. But if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself,” Katherine said, pouring hot water into the teapot. “Drink while it’s warm.”
They sat at the kitchen table, and then—the knock came again. Sharp, rhythmic. One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three.
“Do you hear it?” Nina clutched her daughter’s sleeve. “There it is again.”
Katherine listened, brow furrowed. Another knock.
“Fine. Let’s look.”
The storage cupboard, small and dim, was crammed with odds and ends. Katherine flicked on the light. Jars lined the shelves, old boxes stacked neatly, her father’s toolbox—everything in place.
“See? Nothing here,” she said.
“But what’s that?” Nina pointed to an unfamiliar wooden box on the far shelf, its dark surface adorned with brass corners and strange engravings.
Katherine moved closer. “Where did this come from? I’ve never seen it before.”
“Nor have I. Odd.” Nina reached for it, but Katherine caught her wrist.
“Don’t touch it. Maybe the neighbours left it here? Or the landlord? We’ll ask Tom—he knows everything about this building.”
They stepped out, but Nina kept glancing back. A ripple of unease settled in her chest. Strangely, the knocking had ceased the moment they entered the cupboard.
That evening, Katherine called Edward.
“Love, how are things? I’ll stay another few days—Mum’s unsettled. Claims there’s knocking in the cupboard. We found a strange box there.”
“Could it be post-hospital nerves?” Edward suggested. “After a heart attack, people sometimes imagine things.”
“This isn’t imagination. I heard it too. And the box is real. I’ll ask Tom tomorrow.”
“Katie, you didn’t open it, did you?”
“No. Mum wouldn’t let me touch it. Gave me the creeps.”
“Good. Best not to meddle.”
Come morning, Nina woke to insistent knocking—louder, more urgent. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen. Katherine still slept on the sofa.
The sound grew. Nina pressed her ear to the cupboard door. It came from within, from the back shelf.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. Then—one thunderous knock.
Nina staggered back, heart hammering. She rushed to wake Katherine.
“Katie! Get up, now!”
“What’s wrong?” Katherine bolted upright.
“In the cupboard—it answered me!”
“Answered you?”
“I asked who was there, and it knocked once—like a reply!”
Katherine rubbed her face, squinting at the clock. Half past six.
“Mum, are you sure?”
“Certain. Katie, we must call someone—a handyman, or—or a vicar.”
“A vicar?” Katherine blinked. “Since when are you religious?”
“Since now. There are things in this world we don’t understand.”
After breakfast, they found Tom sweeping the courtyard, whistling a tune.
“Thomas,” Katherine called. “A moment?”
“Of course, Miss Katherine. Trouble?”
“Do you know who might’ve left a box in our cupboard? Old, wooden, with carvings.”
Tom froze. His face paled.
“A box? What sort?”
“Darker wood, brass corners, strange markings,” Nina described.
Tom’s hands trembled. “Oh, that’s no good. No good at all. You didn’t open it?”
“No,” Katherine said. “Why? Do you know something?”
“I do. That box belonged to Miss Abigail, from flat fourteen. Remember her?”
Nina nodded. Miss Abigail had died three years prior—a reclusive spinster, feared by neighbours.
“Well,” Tom continued, “on her deathbed, she made me swear: bury the box, never open it. Said it held something that mustn’t be freed.”
“And you did?” Katherine asked.
“Took it to the cemetery, dug deep near her grave. Piled stones atop. Yet here it is…”
Katherine scoffed. “Boxes don’t move on their own.”
“However it returned, mark my words—there’s wickedness in it. Miss Abigail dabbled in spiritualism in her youth. Called up things best left alone. Later, something dark latched onto her. She trapped it in that box, sealed it tight. Said if opened, it’d unleash what should stay caged.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” Katherine muttered, though her voice wavered.
“Call it what you will. But don’t open that box. Not ever.”
Back upstairs, the box still sat on the shelf—yet Nina swore it had shifted. The knocking returned that night, soft but relentless.
“Katie, perhaps we should destroy it,” Nina whispered.
“How? Toss it in the bin? What if someone finds it?”
“Rebury it, then.”
“Tom already did—and it came back.”
They stood, helpless, until the knocking started anew. Louder.
“It wants out,” Nina murmured.
Sleep evaded them. By dawn, scratching joined the knocks—nails on wood from within.
“Enough.” Katherine rose, resolved. “I’ll arrange for disposal. Today.”
But when they opened the cupboard—the box was gone.
“Impossible,” Katherine gasped. “It was right here!”
They searched every corner, every shelf. Nothing.
“Maybe we moved it?” Nina ventured, unconvinced.
They combed the flat—kitchen, bedroom, even the loo. Gone.
“Right. I’m calling Edward. And a doctor,” Katherine declared.
“A doctor? Why?”
“Because this isn’t normal. Either we’re both mad, or—”
Edward arrived within the hour. He listened, sceptical.
“Love, boxes don’t vanish. Someone must’ve taken it.”
“Who? We’ve been here all day.”
“Then perhaps you imagined it?”
Nina bristled. “I’m not daft, Edward. We both heard it.”
“Fine. Let’s search again.”
They found nothing. That evening, the knocking resumed—not from the cupboard, but Nina’s bedroom.
“Mum, do you hear—?” Katherine gasped.
They flung the door open. There, on the bedside table, sat the box.
“How?” Katherine whispered.
“It moved itself,” Nina said softly. “Katie, maybe we should open it. If it wants out so badly—”
“No! Tom warned us!”
Katherine snatched the box, thrusting it back into the cupboard. Yet each morning, it reappeared—on the kitchen table, the sofa, the bed. The knocks grew louder, more demanding.
“Katie, I can’t bear this,” Nina confessed a week later. “No sleep, no peace. Let’s fetch the vicar.”
Father William listened gravely.
“Some things,” he said at last, “are best left undisturbed. If this woman trapped darkness within, opening it would be folly. But nor can you keep it here.”
“What, then?” Katherine asked.
“I’ll bless the house, say prayers. The box must be burned.”
“And if what’s inside escapes?”
“It’ll be weakened. Prayer will banish it fully.”
The next day, Father William arrived. He blessed each room, chanting rites. Then, in the courtyard, Tom stoked a fire in the old furnace.
“Don’t fancy this,” Tom muttered. “God knows what’ll crawl out—”
“Have faith,” the vicar said.
Nina cradled the box. It pulsed warmth, vibrating faintly.
“She turned the key, the lock clicked open—and the whispers began.
