Eleanor Whitmore stood by the window, her palm pressed against the cold glass, watching as the caretaker, old Mr. Perkins, swept the last of the golden leaves into a heap. October had been wet and dreary, and the gloom outside matched the heaviness in her heart.
“Mum, are you at the window again?” Katherine, her daughter—nearing forty now—stepped into the room. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Yes, love,” Eleanor murmured without turning. “Katherine, what’s that knocking in the attic? I heard it last night, and again this morning.”
Katherine sighed, filling the kettle. “Probably just a squirrel. Or the pipes. This house was built in the sixties—everything creaks.”
“No, not a squirrel. Squirrels scurry. This is knocking, like something inside wants out.” Eleanor turned to her. “Should we check?”
“Mum, we looked yesterday! It’s just Dad’s old tools, the Christmas decorations, jars of jam. Nothing else. You’re still shaken from the hospital.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly. A month ago, she’d been rushed in with heart trouble, and now Katherine hovered like a mother hen, refusing to leave her alone. She’d even taken leave from her job. Eleanor hated feeling like a burden.
“Katie, you should go home. I’m fine, really. And Peter must miss you.”
“Peter can manage. But if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” Katherine poured the tea. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
They sat at the kitchen table when the knocking started again—clear, rhythmic: one, two, three, pause, then again.
“You hear that?” Eleanor clutched her daughter’s sleeve. “There it is!”
Katherine frowned, listening. It repeated.
“Let’s have a look,” she said firmly.
The attic was a cramped space behind the kitchen, cluttered with boxes and old suitcases. Katherine flicked on the light. Jam jars, Dad’s toolbox—everything in its place.
“See? Nothing here,” Katherine said.
“And that?” Eleanor pointed to a small wooden box on the highest shelf.
Katherine stepped closer. The box was dark oak, with brass corners, its lid etched with odd, twisting symbols.
“Where’d that come from?” Katherine frowned. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Nor have I. Odd…” Eleanor reached for it, but Katherine stopped her.
“Don’t touch it. Maybe the neighbours left it? Or the landlord? We’ll ask Mr. Perkins—he knows everything about this building.”
They left the attic, but Eleanor couldn’t shake the unease. And the knocking had stopped the moment they’d stepped inside.
That evening, Katherine called her husband.
“Peter, how are you? I’ll stay another day or two. Mum’s on edge—thinks there’s knocking in the attic. We found some strange box up there.”
“Should we call the doctor?” Peter suggested. “After a heart attack, people sometimes hear things. Hallucinations.”
“It’s not hallucinations. I heard it too. And the box is real. I’ll ask the caretaker tomorrow.”
“Katie, you didn’t open it, did you?”
“No, Mum wouldn’t let me. Feels wrong somehow. Beautiful but… eerie.”
“Good. Who knows what’s inside?”
Morning came with sharper knocks, louder, demanding. Eleanor stumbled into the kitchen. Katherine still slept on the sofa.
The noise seemed to come from deep within the attic. Eleanor pressed her ear to the door.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. Then—a single, thunderous knock.
Eleanor gasped, heart pounding. She shook Katherine awake.
“Katie! Get up, now!”
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
“It—it answered me!”
“What?”
“I asked who was there, and it knocked once. Like it replied!”
Katherine rubbed her face. Half six in the morning.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Katie, we need someone—a handyman, or… a vicar?”
“A vicar?” Katherine blinked. “Mum, you’ve never been religious.”
“I am now. There are things in this world we don’t understand.”
After breakfast, they found Mr. Perkins sweeping the courtyard.
“Mr. Perkins,” Katherine called. “Do you know anything about a box in our attic?”
“A box?” He stiffened. “What sort?”
“Dark wood, brass corners, strange carvings.”
The caretaker paled. “Oh no… No, no, no. You didn’t open it?”
“No,” Katherine said. “Why? What is it?”
“It belonged to Miss Wrenby, in flat fourteen. Remember her?”
Eleanor nodded. Miss Wrenby had died three years back, a reclusive old woman the neighbours whispered about.
“When she passed,” Mr. Perkins said lowly, “she made me swear to bury it. Said it held something that shouldn’t be let loose.”
“So you buried it?”
“Aye, deep by her grave. Covered it with stones. But it seems it didn’t stay put…”
Katherine scoffed. “That’s absurd. Boxes don’t move on their own.”
“I don’t know how it got to you,” the old man muttered. “But if she spoke true, there’s danger in opening it. She dabbled in séances, calling spirits. Something dark took root. She trapped it in that box with special locks. Said if anyone opened it…”
“This is nonsense,” Katherine said, though her voice wavered.
“Maybe. But don’t open it. Promise me.”
Back home, they checked the attic. The box sat unmoved, yet Eleanor swore it had shifted.
“What if we just toss it?” she suggested.
“Where? What if someone finds it?”
“Then bury it again!”
“Mum, he already did, and it came back.”
They stared at the box—then came another knock. Soft, insistent.
“It wants out,” Eleanor whispered.
That night, the knocking grew louder, joined by scratching, like claws on wood.
“Enough,” Katherine said at dawn. “I’m calling the refuse service. They’ll take it far away.”
But when they opened the attic, the box was gone.
They searched the house—cupboards, under beds, even the loo. Gone.
“I’m ringing Peter,” Katherine said. “And a doctor.”
Peter arrived, sceptical. “Boxes don’t vanish. Maybe you imagined it?”
“I’m not mad!” Eleanor snapped.
They searched again—nothing.
That night, the knocking returned—not from the attic, but Eleanor’s bedroom.
On her nightstand sat the box.
They called the vicar.
“Some things,” he said solemnly, “are best left alone. If this woman locked evil inside, opening it would be disastrous. But keeping it here is just as dangerous.”
“What do we do?” Katherine asked.
“I’ll bless the house. Then burn the box.”
The vicar came the next day, sprinkling holy water, reciting prayers. In the courtyard, Mr. Perkins lit a bonfire.
Eleanor held the box. It trembled, warm as flesh.
“Quickly,” she urged.
The vicar opened the fire grate. Flames roared.
“Throw it in,” he said.
The box cracked like a scream as it burned, a shrill whistle piercing the air—inhuman, chilling.
“Don’t look,” the vicar warned, praying fervently.
At last, only ash remained.
That night, silence.
In the morning, Katherine packed.
“I should go home. You’re better now.”
“Of course, love. Thank you.”
“No more strange boxes, eh?”
“No more,” Eleanor promised.
But weeks later, while tidying the spare room, she found a small wooden casket. Intricately carved.
On its lid, two words: *Do Not Open.*
She held it up. Silent. Light as a feather.
Inside, something rattled.
She examined the tiny lock. Simple. Unthreatening.
*If it were evil,* she reasoned, *why warn?*
She placed it on the table.
Then, very slowly, turned the key.
Curiosity has its price. Some doors should stay shut.
