The Closet

You grew up in a small house on the outside of town. In that house, there is a
room that haunts your dreams.

The room is filled with garbage slowly accumulated over the years. Old, broken furniture, long outgrown children's clothing; grown so soft with rot that they break apart as you move them about. Old books, boxes and various other papers make up the remainder of the junk. Occasionally you hear, or think you hear; the scratching of tiny claws. The pitter-patter of tiny insectile feet. The room stinks, a terrible stench; a frightening stench. It grabs you by the bottom of your stomach and twists. Your temples are pounding, and your heart is racing so fast that you can't quite breathe properly. You close your eyes, clench your fists, trying to breathe slowly, trying to calm yourself. After an eternity you finally succeed, at least a little bit.

In the room there is a closet.

When you open your eyes, you can barely make out the top edges of the closet door frame, it's buried behind so much garbage. The entire room is filthy, but there, right there in front of the door is the largest concentration of castoff debris. Your mind takes this in, and tries to run with it, but you cut it off almost viciously. You make your mind a very careful blank, and when you think you can keep it that way you start toward the closet.

As you draw nearer to the closet the stench seems to grow. An icy sweat breaks out on your forehead, and you start humming a tune, "Pop Goes the Weasel". You always hated this tune when you were a child, but for some reason this is the only thing that comes to mind. That's okay, though. The humming helps keep your mind as blank as possible. You reach the foot of the pile, and stop.

Staring at a lifetimes worth of old junk you realize you're terrified. Petrified in a way that you hadn't been since you were a small child, and you went to live with your aunt. It was the fear of not knowing what was going to happen next, but knowing that, whatever it was, it would be bad. You've blocked most of your life before the age of eight from your mind, adamantly refusing to think of it, but there are ghosts that never go away, no matter how strongly you ignore them. Now they try to rise up on you, the ghosts of atrocities past, and you hold the only good and clean picture in your mind that nothing can take away. The way your daughter looked at you the day she was born; face scrunched up, and screaming.

Your mind calm again, you reach out, and grab the first box from the pile with hands that only shake a small amount.

As you dig your way through the pile you wish you'd thought to bring gloves. God alone knew how long this stuff had been sitting around, and you don't even want to think about what might have made its home in it. But you continue digging, doggedly, determined; and despite all efforts to the contrary, memories are coming back.

She used to lock you in the closet, very often for absolutely no reason. She'd just swoop down from out of no where, screaming, punching, slapping, scratching; driving you down the hallway, through the room, and into the closet. You never knew how long you were in there, that was the true hell of it, but sometimes days would pass. You remember wailing and crying in the eternal dark, fouling yourself when too much time would pass. The smell and the darkness became a living thing after enough time would pass, both of them battling it out to see which one would finish you off. Sometimes when you came out the light would hurt your eyes, and you would get sick trying to drink water. At those times she would hold you gently, slowly feeding you small sips of water, and you would curl up in her lap, saying: "I love you momma."

You give your head a shake to clear these memories. By now, everything is cleared away from the closet door now, save one heavy tall dresser. You aren't as young as you used to be, but you throw your weight behind it, and manage to slide it out of the way.

The smell is really bad now, and you start coughing, the coughing worsens, becomes gagging. You move a little bit away until you can breath normally.

The closet door is clear to open.

Apparently, you are not the only one who finds this smell so deeply offensive. Old incense sticks, their tips black with soot, completely line the door, squeezed between it and the frame. Someone made an attempt to overpower the smell, on more than one occasion judging from the still more used incense sticks scattered about on the floor.

Slowly, feeling like you're in a nightmare, you reach out, and pull the door open.

The last time you'd visited your aunt she'd tried guilt tripping you into visiting your mother. She was in the hospice now, and no one knew how much longer she was going to last. Her last wich was to see you again. You told your aunt that it just wasn't going to happen. She'd sighed shaking her head, and said: "You're the only one she has left."

Confused, you'd asked: "The only one what?"

She'd given you a strange look. "The only child."

You continued to look at her confusion. After a time she asked, "Don't you remember, Rachel?"

The conversation had continued from there, but nothing after that part mattered. Because that's when the nightmares started, threatening to drive you to madness unless you faced them.

Walls you built up over the years come crashing down, as the door continues swinging open on its own and you remember. God, help you, you remember. You remember the screams, the cries, the pleading, and finally the terrible, terrible silence.

In the house where you grew up there is a room.

In the room there is a closet.

Curled up in the corner of the closet is your sister, her mouth forever open in a silent scream.

The End