That Old Wardrobe

When I was younger I used to be terrified of my wardrobe, to the point I spent as little time in my bedroom as possible.

We used to live in the house next door until I was about three, but then the little old lady who lived in our current house died and the house was put on the market, for a very good price. My parents bought it because they loved the road, and the garden was bigger and the view over the fields out the back was better. I don’t remember moving in, I just remember wanting to move back because I didn’t want to sleep in my room. My older brother teased me that the lady died in my bedroom, and my parents have never told me otherwise. I do, however, remember being terrified of my wardrobe. It had been in my room when we moved in, so it became my wardrobe. My Dad sprayed it hot pink to make it girly to go with my pale purple walls. My Mum painted flowers on my wall to try to get me to like my room. I got a disco ball and funky Disney night lights to try to get me to sleep without building a duvet fort each night. My Granny knitted me a friendly dragon, and told me he was magic and at night he would wake up and eat all of the monsters. For my seventh birthday, they bought me a tortoise, and his house was put in my bedroom, so any noise could be blamed on him. But no matter what they did I was terrified of my room, and most of all that wardrobe. I never once opened the doors.

I was terrified, I thought at the time, for a very good reason. I was convinced the old lady’s ghost lived in the wardrobe. And I had evidence! There was a demon shape in the sprayed paint, it always had a shadow around it, and I could always hear stuff coming from it. Scratching and shuffling, and I was sure the door used to scuff open and shut during the night. I always thought it was good evidence; I was told to not be silly and sent back to bed. Obviously, as I grew up I began to think that they were right and I had been silly because, a. the likelihood of there being something in my wardrobe was impossible, and b. she was a lovely old lady and obviously wouldn’t be a ghost in a wardrobe. When I was fifteen my parents built an extension and I moved to a different room, my old bedroom became a room where we just dumped boxes.

Now, about three weeks ago I returned from university. I’m a secondary school history teacher now. I couldn’t have a job where rational thinking and logic – or dullness depending on one’s opinion – is more prevalent. I’ll be bringing back a lot of work to mark, so my parents have said that I can convert the box room, my old bedroom, into my office. So, I’ve spent the last few weeks clearing the boxes and throwing things out. It has taken me weeks, but I have finally reached the wardrobe, which is in the corner furthest from the door.

Today was the day I was going to clear all of my old clothes out of it, clean it and fill it with my new suits. There was no stirring of any emotion as I went over to it. Nothing as I opened my curtains on that side of the room and grabbed a bag for rubbish and one for charity. I was quite merrily clearing it out for about ten minutes, with some good dance music on in the background. For a while anyway. I scratched my hand on a broken coat hanger, and stopped and stood back. Me being me I swore at the wardrobe and stood back to tell it off.

And then I noticed them. All up the inside of the doors are deep scratches. Always three aligned. As if something scratched that door again and again and again, trying to get out.

Credit: Elisabeth