Edith Fairweather stood by the window, her palm pressed against the glass, watching as old Tom the caretaker swept the last of the golden leaves into a pile. October had been a dreary month, and her spirits were as grey and damp as the weather outside.
“Mother, are you at that window again?” Her daughter, Margaret—no longer young, pushing forty—stepped into the room. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Yes, please,” Edith murmured without turning. “Maggie, do you hear that knocking in the cellar? I heard it last evening and again this morning.”
Margaret frowned, setting the kettle on the stove. “It’s just a rat, surely. Or the old pipes. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. This house was built in the sixties—everything creaks and groans.”
“No, not a rat. Rats scurry—this was a proper knock. As if something were inside… trying to get out.” Edith turned to her daughter. “Perhaps we ought to have a look?”
“Mother, we checked yesterday! There’s nothing down there but Father’s old tools and the jars of preserves. You’ve been jumpy since you came home from hospital.”
Edith sighed. A month ago, she’d been admitted with heart trouble, and now Margaret hovered over her like a mother hen, too afraid to leave her alone. She’d even moved in from her own flat, taken leave from work. Edith felt like a burden.
“Maggie, love, you should go home. I’m perfectly fine. And your Roger misses you.”
“Roger can manage. But if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.” Margaret poured the boiling water into the teapot and brought a cup to her mother. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
They sat at the kitchen table when the knocking came again—clear, deliberate. One, two, three. A pause. Then again.
“You hear it?” Edith clutched her daughter’s sleeve. “There, just like before.”
Margaret frowned, listening. The knocking repeated.
“Let’s have a proper look,” she said briskly, standing.
The cellar lay just beyond the kitchen—a cramped, shadowy space crammed with forgotten odds and ends. Margaret flicked on the light and glanced around. Shelves lined with jars, old boxes, her father’s rusted toolbox. Everything in its place.
“See? There’s nothing here,” she told her mother.
“Then what’s that?” Edith pointed to a small wooden box on the far shelf.
Margaret stepped closer. The box was old, dark wood with tarnished brass corners. Strange engravings covered the lid, almost like writing.
“Where did that come from?” Margaret frowned. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”
“Neither do I. Odd…” Edith reached for the box, but Margaret caught her wrist.
“Don’t touch it. Maybe the neighbours left it here by mistake? Or Mrs. Wilkins from the council? We’ll ask Tom—he knows everything about this building.”
They left the cellar, but Edith kept glancing back. A restless unease settled in her chest. And the moment they stepped out, the knocking stopped.
That evening, Margaret rang her husband.
“Roger, how are things? I might stay another day or two. Mother’s grown nervous—says there’s knocking in the cellar. We found some strange little box down there.”
“Perhaps she ought to see the doctor?” Roger suggested. “After a heart attack, people sometimes hear things—hallucinations, that sort of thing.”
“It’s not hallucinations. I heard it too. And the box is real—I saw it. I’ll ask Tom tomorrow.”
“Maggie… you didn’t open it, did you?”
“No, Mother wouldn’t let me touch it. Truth be told, it gave me the shivers. Beautiful, but eerie.”
“Best leave it be. Who knows what’s inside…”
The next morning, Edith woke to the knocking—louder now, more insistent, demanding attention. She pulled on her dressing gown and slipped into the kitchen. Margaret still slept on the sitting-room sofa.
The sound grew sharper. Edith pressed her ear to the cellar door. It came from deep inside, near that far shelf.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence. Then—a single, thunderous knock.
Edith stumbled back, her heart racing. She hurried to wake Margaret.
“Maggie! Maggie, wake up!”
“What’s wrong, Mother?” Margaret sat up, startled.
“In the cellar—it answered me!”
“Answered you?”
“I asked who was there, and it knocked once. Like a reply!”
Margaret rubbed her face, squinted at the clock. Half six in the morning.
“Mother, you’re certain?”
“Absolutely. Maggie, we ought to call someone—a handyman, or… I don’t know, the vicar?”
“The vicar?” Margaret blinked. “Mother, you’ve never been religious.”
“I’m beginning to think there’s more in this world than we understand.”
After breakfast, they went down to find old Tom. The caretaker was sweeping the path by the building, whistling softly.
“Tom, have you a moment?” Margaret called.
“Of course, Mrs. Fairweather. What’s the trouble?”
“Do you know who might’ve left a box in our cellar? We found it yesterday—no idea where it came from.”
Tom stopped sweeping, his face turning grave.
“A box? What sort of box?”
“An old wooden one, with engravings,” Edith said.
The colour drained from Tom’s face. He set the broom aside.
“Oh, this is bad… very bad. You didn’t open it?”
“No,” said Margaret. “Why—do you know something about it?”
“Aye. That box belonged to Miss Elspeth, from flat fourteen. Remember her?”
Edith nodded. Miss Elspeth had died three years back—an odd old spinster, the sort neighbours avoided.
“Well,” Tom continued, shaky, “when she lay dying, she made me promise—bury the box, deep, where none could find it. Said she’d locked something terrible inside, something that mustn’t ever get out.”
“And did you?” Margaret asked.
“I did! Took it to the graveyard, dug it down near her plot, covered it with stones. And now here it is…”
The women exchanged a glance.
“Tom, that’s absurd,” Margaret protested. “Boxes don’t just—walk back.”
“Don’t know how it got to you,” Tom muttered. “But if Miss Elspeth spoke true, there’ll be trouble. She dabbled in spirit-calling when she was young, séances and such. Then something went wrong. Some darkness settled in her home. She trapped it in that box, locked it tight. Said if it’s opened, whatever’s inside would be free again.”
“That’s superstitious nonsense,” Margaret snapped, though her voice trembled.
“Superstition or not,” Tom said firmly, “don’t you open it. Hear me? Don’t.”
Back upstairs, the women peered into the cellar. The box sat undisturbed—or so it seemed, though Edith fancied it had shifted slightly. Trick of the light?
“Maggie, perhaps we ought to throw it out,” she suggested.
“Throw it where? The bins? What if someone finds it?”
“Then we bury it again.”
“Mother, Tom buried it, and here it is.”
They stood frozen, the box between them. Then—knocking. Soft, persistent.
“It wants out,” Edith whispered.
That night, neither slept. The knocking continued till dawn, fading and surging. By morning, a new sound joined it—a scratching, as if something clawed at the wood from within.
“That’s enough,” Margaret snapped at breakfast. “I’m ringing the rubbish collectors. Let them take the wretched thing far away.”
But when they went to the cellar, the box was gone.
“It can’t be,” Margaret breathed. “It was right here!”
They searched every corner, every shelf. Nothing.
“Perhaps… we moved it yesterday?” Edith ventured, though she didn’t believe it.
They tore the flat apart—kitchen, bedrooms, even the bath. The box had vanished.
“Mother, I’m calling Roger. And the doctor,” Margaret decided.
“The doctor? Whatever for?”
“Because this isn’t right. Maybe we’re both going mad.”
Roger arrived within the hour, listening with growing disbelief.
“Good Lord,” he said at last. “Boxes don’t vanish into thin air. Are you sure you even saw it?”
“Roger, I’m not senile!” Edith snapped. “We both heard the knocking!”
“All right, all right. Let’s search again.”
They combed the flat once more—and found nothing. That evening, when Roger left, the knocking returned—no longer from the cellar, but Edith’s bedroom.
“Mother, do you hear—?” Margaret appeared in the doorway.
“I do. It’s moved.”
They stepped inside, turned on the light.
There, on the nightstand, sat the boxWith trembling hands, Edith turned the key in the lock—and as the lid creaked open, a whisper colder than the grave sighed through the room, and the last thing she heard was Margaret’s scream.
