The Blood Beneath the Kitchen Table

“Where are you headed?” Brenda called after me, panic lifting her voice. “Dave!”

I kept moving, following the hall toward Clara’s room.

Her door stood shut.

My fingers reached for the knob, then halted before making contact.

Above it, fixed to the outer face, sat a thick brass bolt, far higher than a child could reach.

The hardware looked newly fitted. Shiny screws caught the light, and the wood beneath the plate had rough, fresh splinters.

A lock on the outside of a little girl’s door wasn’t meant to protect her from anything beyond it.

It was meant to hold her in.

I lifted my hand and tested the metal. The bolt rested open.

“I can tell you why,” Brenda said from behind me.

I whipped around. She had come along the corridor without making a sound.

Her smile had vanished. She stood with her arms folded tight.

“Clara’s been sleepwalking,” she said. Her voice had gone hard and level; the anxious wife from the kitchen was gone. “The doctor told me to secure her room, so she couldn’t wander outside at night while you were away.”

“Which doctor?”

“Dr. Evans.”

“He retired last year.”

Brenda held my gaze without speaking. The silence between us thickened until the hallway felt airless.

A noise came from Clara’s room. At once, my blood seemed to turn cold.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

It came in an even rhythm, from somewhere low inside.

I shoved Brenda aside, seized the knob, and twisted it, forcing the door wide.

Darkness filled the room. The blackout curtains I’d put up before deployment hid every trace of daylight.

I searched for the switch by touch, found it, and snapped the light on.

Clara wasn’t at the door.

She sat utterly still on her bed, knees drawn toward her chest, eyes fixed on the room’s center.

The sound wasn’t coming from her.

It came from the closet.

I stopped at the threshold, every hair at my nape lifting.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

There was intention in the noise. No trapped animal would make such a patient, steady pattern.

The sound issued from the lower corner of the closet, where its broad mirrored panel stood closed.

Clara stayed stiff on the mattress, arms clasped around her shins. She seemed unable to look away from the mirror.

“Clara,” I said softly, stepping closer. “Is somebody in there?”

She gave no reply. Her mouth quivered, and a tear slipped down, tracing through the dust on her face.

Behind me, Brenda’s steps stopped just outside the room.

“Dave, don’t,” she pleaded. Her words came out in a strained whisper. “Please, leave it closed.”

I glanced back without turning fully. She clutched the frame, her fingers drained of color, eyes wide with what looked like real fear.

The warm, dutiful mother she’d performed in the kitchen had disappeared.

“Who’s in that closet, Brenda?” I asked. My voice stayed quiet, but there was no softness in it.

“It’s the pipes,” she said quickly. “The old plumbing shifts when the temperature changes. I’ve complained to the landlord so many times.”

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Pipes didn’t scrape at a door like claws. They didn’t fall silent, then start again as if listening.

I left her excuse behind and moved nearer the closet.

“Dave, I’m begging you—don’t open it!” Brenda rushed in and clamped a hand on my shoulder. Her nails bit through my jacket, and she pulled with unexpected force.

I knocked her grip away, using more strength than I meant to. She staggered and caught herself on Clara’s dresser.

“Then tell me what’s going on,” I said sharply. “Now.”

Brenda tried to answer. Only a dry, strangled sob escaped her.

Her eyes jumped from me to Clara, then to the mirrored panel.

I turned away from my wife, set my boots firmly against the carpet, and took hold of the closet’s brass edge.

I braced for weight against it, for someone hidden on the other side to resist.

Then I hauled the sliding panel aside.

It struck its rubber stop with a sharp crack that rang around the small room.

I dropped into a guarded crouch, fists up, searching the shadowed space.

No one sprang out. No shout followed.

The closet stood nearly bare. Clara’s little dresses and winter coats hung straight from plastic hangers, and her shoes sat in a row on the floor.

I found no person inside. The scratching’s source remained a mystery.