The Unopened Box
Margaret Whitcombe stood by the window, her palm pressed against the glass, watching as the caretaker, old Thomas, raked the last of the autumn leaves. October had been wet and dreary, and her spirits were much the same.
“Mum, are you at the window again?” Katherine, her daughter—now well into her thirties—stepped into the room. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, dear,” Margaret replied without turning. “Katherine, have you heard that tapping in the cupboard? Last night and again this morning.”
Katherine frowned, setting the kettle on the stove. “Probably a mouse. Or the old pipes. This house was built in the sixties, everything creaks.”
“No, not a mouse. This was different—like something knocking from inside.” Margaret finally turned to face her. “Shall we have a look?”
“Mum, we checked yesterday! It’s just Dad’s old tools and jars of preserves. You’ve been on edge since the hospital.”
Margaret sighed heavily. A month ago, she’d been taken in with heart trouble, and now Katherine hovered over her like a mother hen, having taken leave from work to stay in her tiny flat. Margaret hated feeling like a burden.
“Kate, you should go home. I’m quite all right. And Edward must miss you.”
“Edward can manage. But if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” Katherine poured the tea. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
They settled at the kitchen table when the knocking came again—three sharp raps, a pause, then three more.
“Do you hear that?” Margaret clutched her daughter’s sleeve. “There it is again.”
Katherine listened. The knocking repeated.
“Let’s look,” she said, standing firmly.
The cupboard, a dim little alcove behind the kitchen, held odds and ends: jars on shelves, old boxes, her father’s tool chest. Everything was in its place.
“See? There’s nothing here,” Katherine said.
“Then what’s that?” Margaret pointed to a small wooden box on the far shelf.
Katherine moved closer. The box was old, dark wood with brass corners, its lid carved with strange markings.
“Where did this come from?” Katherine frowned. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Neither have I.” Margaret reached for it, but Katherine stopped her.
“Don’t touch it. Maybe the neighbours left it? Or the caretaker? We’ll ask Thomas—he knows everything about this building.”
They left the cupboard, but Margaret kept glancing back. Something unsettled her. Strangely, the knocking had ceased the moment they stepped inside.
That evening, Katherine phoned her husband.
“Edward, how are you? I’ll stay a few more days. Mum’s been jumpy—says there’s knocking in the cupboard. We found this odd little box.”
“Should she see a doctor?” he suggested. “After a heart attack, people sometimes imagine things.”
“It’s not imagination. I heard it too. And the box is real. I’ll ask the caretaker tomorrow.”
“Kate, you didn’t open it, did you?”
“No, Mum wouldn’t let me. It’s beautiful, but… eerie.”
“Good. Best not to.”
The next morning, Margaret woke to louder, insistent knocking. She pulled on her dressing gown and hurried to the kitchen. Katherine still slept on the sofa.
The noise grew louder, clearly from the cupboard. Margaret pressed her ear to the door.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. Then—one thunderous knock.
Margaret staggered back, her heart pounding. She shook Katherine awake.
“Kate! Get up!”
“What’s wrong?”
“In the cupboard—it answered me!”
“Answered you?”
“I asked who was there, and it knocked once. Like a reply!”
Katherine rubbed her eyes, checked the clock. Half past six.
“Mum, are you sure?”
“Absolutely! Kate, we must call someone. A priest, perhaps.”
“A priest?” Katherine blinked. “You’ve never been religious.”
“I’m starting to believe. There are things in this world we don’t understand.”
After breakfast, they found Thomas sweeping the courtyard.
“Thomas,” Katherine called. “Do you know who might have left a wooden box in our cupboard?”
Thomas stopped sweeping, his face paling.
“A box? What kind?”
Margaret described it.
“Oh, this is bad,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me you opened it?”
“No,” Katherine said. “Why? What do you know?”
“That box belonged to Miss Eleanor Hartley in flat fourteen. Remember her?”
Margaret nodded. Eleanor had died three years prior—a reclusive spinster, feared by neighbours.
“When she was dying,” Thomas continued, “she made me swear never to open it. Said it held something that shouldn’t be let out. I buried it deep by her grave, under stones. Yet here it is…”
Katherine scoffed. “Boxes don’t walk back on their own!”
Thomas shook his head. “Miss Eleanor dabbled in spiritualism—séances, fortune-telling. Something wicked took root in her home. She trapped it inside that box with special locks. Said if anyone opened it…”
“Nonsense,” Katherine said, though her voice wavered.
“Maybe. But don’t open it. Swear to me.”
Back home, the box remained on the shelf—though Margaret thought it had shifted slightly.
“Kate, should we throw it out?”
“Where? What if someone else opens it?”
“Then we rebury it.”
“You heard Thomas—he buried it, and it returned.”
They stared at the box, uncertain. Then the knocking resumed—soft but insistent.
“It wants out,” Margaret whispered.
That night, the knocking continued until dawn, joined by a new sound—scraping, as if something clawed from within.
“Enough,” Katherine said in the morning. “I’m calling the rubbish removal. They’ll take it far away.”
But when they opened the cupboard, the box was gone.
“It can’t be!” Katherine gasped. “It was right here!”
They searched the entire flat. The box had vanished.
“Mum, I’m calling Edward. And a doctor.”
“A doctor? Why?”
“Because something isn’t right. Are we both losing our minds?”
Edward arrived within the hour. He listened skeptically.
“Boxes don’t disappear. Maybe someone took it?”
“Who? We’ve been here all day!”
“Then perhaps you imagined it?”
“Edward, I am not mad!” Margaret retorted. “We both heard the knocking.”
“Fine, let’s search again.”
They found nothing. That evening, the knocking returned—not from the cupboard, but Margaret’s bedroom.
“Mum, do you hear that?”
“Yes. It’s moved.”
They entered the bedroom. On the nightstand sat the box.
“How did it get here?” Katherine breathed.
“It came on its own,” Margaret said softly. “Kate, should we open it? If it wants out so badly—”
“No! Thomas warned us!”
Katherine snatched the box and returned it to the cupboard.
But the box refused to stay. Each morning, it reappeared—on the kitchen table, the sofa, her bedside. The knocking grew louder.
“Kate, I can’t bear this,” Margaret confessed a week later. “I can’t sleep. Perhaps we should call a priest.”
“Let’s try.”
Father Michael listened gravely.
“Some things are best left untouched. If this woman truly trapped something dark inside, opening it would be disastrous. But keeping it is dangerous too.”
“What do we do?” Katherine asked.
“I’ll bless the flat, say prayers. Then the box must be burned.”
“And if whatever’s inside escapes?”
“It will be weakened—the prayers will finish it.”
The next day, Father Michael arrived. He blessed the flat, then they took the box to the caretaker’s shed, where Thomas had lit the old stove.
“I don’t like this,” Thomas muttered.
“Have faith,” the priest said.
Margaret held the box—warm, almost hot, as if trembling.
“Quickly now,” she urged.
Father Michael opened the stove door. Flames danced in the darkness.
“Throw it in.”
Margaret tossed the box into the fire. A terrible crackling filled the air, like wood screaming. Then a faint, bone-chilling whistle.
“Don’t look,” the priest warned, beginning his prayers.
The box burned unnaturally long. When the flames finally died, only blackened coals remained.
“It’s done,” Father Michael said. “Peace at last.”
That night, the flat was silent. Margaret slept deeply for the first time in days.
In the morning, Katherine said, “Mum, I should go home. You’re better now, and I must return to work.”
“Of course, dear. Thank you.”
“Just promise me—no more mysterious boxes.”
“I promise,” Margaret said.
But a month later, while tidying the storage room, she found a small, carved casket. ItsShe hesitated, then placed the casket back on the shelf, turning away before the first faint knock could begin.
