Mabel Whitby stood by the window, her palm pressed against the glass, watching as old Tom the caretaker swept the last of the golden leaves from the pavement. October had been relentlessly damp, and the heaviness in her chest mirrored the grey, drizzly sky.
“Mum, are you at the window again?” came a voice from behind. Margaret—Mags for short—hovered in the doorway, a kettle in hand. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Yes, dear,” Mabel murmured without turning. “Mags… have you heard that knocking in the cupboard under the stairs? Last night, then again this morning.”
Mags sighed, setting the kettle on the hob. “Probably pipes. Or mice. This house was built in the sixties—everything creaks.”
“No, not mice. Mice scurry. This was a proper knock. Like something inside wants out.” Mabel finally turned, her eyes wide. “Shall we have a look?”
“We looked yesterday! It’s just Dad’s old tools, tinned preserves, and dust. You’ve been on edge since hospital.”
Mabel exhaled sharply. A month ago, she’d been rushed in with palpitations, and now Mags fluttered about like a mother hen, refusing to leave her alone. She’d moved in from her flat in Croydon, taken leave from work. Mabel hated feeling like a burden.
“Love, you should go home. I’m fine. And John must miss you.”
“John can manage. But if something happened to you?” Mags poured boiling water into the teapot. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
They sat at the kitchen table when it started again—three sharp raps, a pause, then three more.
“Hear that?” Mabel clutched her daughter’s sleeve.
Mags frowned. It repeated.
“Right. Let’s have another look,” she said firmly.
The cupboard under the stairs was cramped, cluttered with jam jars and yellowing newspapers. Mags flicked on the bulb. Everything was as it should be—until Mabel pointed to a small wooden box on the highest shelf.
Mags stepped closer. It was antique, dark oak with tarnished brass corners. Strange symbols were carved into the lid, like old runes.
“Where’d this come from?” Mags whispered. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Nor have I.” Mabel reached for it, but Mags grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t. Might be the neighbours left it. Or the landlord. We’ll ask Tom—he knows everything in this building.”
They left, but Mabel kept glancing back. The knocking had stopped the moment they’d entered.
That evening, Mags rang John.
“Listen, love. Mum’s proper rattled. Says there’s knocking in the cupboard. We found this… box. Old, carved. Gives me the creeps.”
“Maybe see the doctor?” John suggested. “After heart scares, people imagine things.”
“It’s not her imagination. I heard it too. And the box is real. I’ll ask Tom tomorrow.”
“Mags… you didn’t open it, did you?”
“No. Mum said not to touch it. Feels wrong somehow.”
“Good. Who knows what’s inside…”
At dawn, Mabel woke to knocking—louder, urgent. She shuffled to the kitchen, where Mags slept on the sofa.
The sound led her to the cupboard door. She pressed her ear against it.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. Then—one thunderous knock.
Mabel stumbled back, heart racing. She shook Mags awake.
“It answered me!”
“What?”
“I asked who was there, and it knocked once. Like a reply!”
Mags rubbed her eyes. Half six in the morning.
“You’re sure?”
“Certain. Let’s call someone—a handyman. Or… a vicar.”
“A vicar?” Mags blinked. “Mum, you’ve never been churchy.”
“I am now. There are things in this world we don’t understand.”
After breakfast, they found Tom trimming the hedges.
“Tom,” Mags called. “Do you know who put a box in our cupboard? Old, wooden, with markings?”
Tom’s face paled. He dropped his shears.
“Bloody hell. You didn’t open it?”
“No,” said Mabel. “Why?”
Tom wiped his brow. “That belonged to Miss Havisham in flat fourteen. Odd bird. Died three years back. Told me to bury it deep by her grave. Said there was something inside… something that shouldn’t get out.”
“And?” Mags demanded.
“I buried it! Properly! But it’s back, ain’t it?”
They exchanged glances.
“Tom, that’s mad,” Mags said, though her voice wavered.
“Miss Havisham dabbled in spirits when she were young. Séances, Ouija boards. Then something… stayed. She locked it in that box. Said if it opened, worse’d come.”
Mabel shivered.
“Rubbish,” Mags muttered, but her hands shook.
That night, the knocking grew louder. By dawn, scratching joined it—a sound like claws on wood.
“Enough,” Mags declared. “We’ll bin it.”
But the box was gone.
They tore the house apart. Nothing.
John arrived, skeptical. “Boxes don’t vanish. You sure you didn’t imagine it?”
“We’re not mad!” Mabel snapped.
They searched again. Nothing.
That evening, the knocking resumed—not from the cupboard, but Mabel’s bedroom.
On the nightstand sat the box.
“How?!” Mags gasped.
“It moves,” Mabel whispered.
For a week, the box appeared in different rooms. The knocking grew relentless.
“We need the vicar,” Mabel said at last.
Father James listened gravely.
“Some things are best left alone. If this woman trapped darkness inside, opening it would be disastrous. But keeping it is just as dangerous.”
“What do we do?” Mags asked.
“I’ll bless the house. Then we burn the box.”
“And if whatever’s inside escapes?”
“It’ll be weakened. Prayer will finish it.”
The next day, Tom lit a bonfire in the yard. Mabel held the box—warm now, almost vibrating.
Father James nodded. “Throw it in.”
The moment it hit the flames, the wood shrieked. A hideous whistling filled the air, high and bone-chilling.
“Don’t look!” Father James commanded, reciting prayers.
The box burned unnaturally long. When the fire died, only ashes remained.
“Peace at last,” he said.
That night, the house was silent. For the first time in weeks, Mabel slept soundly.
Next morning, Mags packed. “You’re better now. I should go home.”
“Of course, love. Thank you.”
“No more mysterious boxes, yeah?” Mags grinned.
Mabel laughed. “Promise.”
Yet a month later, while tidying, she found a tiny carved casket. On its lid, two words:
DON’T OPEN.
It was light. Silent. She shook it—something rattled inside.
The lock was small. Simple.
Not like the other one.
And why warn someone, if the thing inside wished harm?
She set it on the table. Stared.
Then took the key hanging from its clasp.
“Oh, go on then,” she said aloud.
And turned it.
