The drawer had been locked since the day they moved in, and Tom had promised not to touch it. But the sound inside it made him freeze halfway across the room.
He stood in the dim hallway of the old flat, listening. There it was again—a soft tap, like something small shifting against wood. His mum was out for her night shift. The flat felt too quiet, too hollow, the kind of quiet that made every breath sound loud.
He stepped closer. The drawer belonged to the bedroom built-in dresser, one that came with the flat. Everything else in the place was new or at least modern enough. But that dresser looked older, darker, carved with patterns he couldn’t name. When they first moved in, the landlord waved at it and said, “Bottom drawer sticks. Best not fuss with it.”
Tom had tried once. It didn’t stick—it was locked. And now, something inside was moving.
He knelt and pressed his ear to the cool wood. The tapping stopped. He whispered a shaky, “Hello?” and immediately felt stupid.
Silence.
He should have walked away. Instead, he reached for the small screwdriver set he kept in his desk drawer, meant for fixing bike chains. His hand shook as he slid the tip into the lock. The metal scraped, loud in the quiet room. He paused again, listening.
Nothing moved this time.
The lock clicked open.
He pulled the drawer gently. It slid out without a sound. The smell that drifted up was cold and dusty, like old books forgotten in a loft. Inside lay three objects: a small brass bell, a bundle of black string tied in a knot he didn’t recognise, and a square Polaroid photograph facedown.
Tom swallowed hard. The photograph felt the worst somehow, like touching it would cross a line. He picked up the bell instead. It looked handmade, a bit dented, but heavy. When he tipped it, it didn’t ring. No clapper inside.
His fingers tingled, a faint prickling. He set it down quickly.
Next was the string. It wasn’t just knotted—woven, spiralled, pulled tight in a pattern that looked almost like a symbol. He nudged it back into place.
Finally, the photo.
His chest tightened. He lifted it by the corner. The white border was yellowed. When he turned it over, he stopped breathing.
It was a picture of the hallway outside his flat.
Not just any hallway—their hallway. The same scuffed skirting board. The same faint stain on the wallpaper. And in the corner of the frame, partly cut off, stood a figure. A person. Someone tall, leaning slightly, as if listening at his front door.
Tom stared at the picture until his eyes hurt. He checked the timestamp printed on the bottom. The ink had faded but was still clear.
It was taken last week.
He dropped the photo and stumbled back. His pulse hammered. Who had been here? Why was their picture in a locked drawer that hadn’t been opened in years?
He backed into the wall and kept staring at the dresser as if something might crawl out. The flat felt colder now. The kind of cold that didn’t come from weather.
A soft sound echoed down the hallway. Tom jerked his head up. Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Coming from the living room.
He forced himself to move. Quietly. He peeked around the corner. The living room was dark except for the faint glow from the streetlights outside. The window blinds trembled slightly, though the windows were shut.
He held his breath.
Tap.
The same sound from the drawer, but louder now.
He followed the sound with his eyes. It wasn’t coming from the dresser this time. It came from the front door.
Something tapped on the other side.
Tom’s whole body went cold. He stepped back, bumping into the sofa. His throat tightened as another tap came, a little quicker, like someone impatient.
He looked at the photo on the floor in the next room.
The figure leaning at the door.
Tap.
This one came with a soft exhale, like a breath brushing the wood.
Tom scrambled into the bedroom, grabbed the drawer’s contents, and shoved them back in, except the photo, which he stuffed into his pocket. He pushed the drawer closed and pressed his palm flat against it. It clicked softly. Locked again.
Tap. This one sounded sharper, almost annoyed.
Tom backed away from the dresser, his breathing too loud in his own ears. He grabbed his phone from the bed and dialed his mum. Straight to voicemail. He whispered, “Come on, pick up,” but she didn’t.
The flat felt smaller by the second. The air felt too tight. He stepped toward the window, then stopped. A shadow moved across the frosted glass of the front door. Slow. Sliding across like a hand trailing.
Tom’s legs almost gave out. He forced himself to stand still. Wait. Listen.
Even the tapping stopped.
The silence felt alive.
He didn’t know how long he waited. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. But when he finally peeked into the hallway again, the shadow was gone. The door was still closed.
He grabbed his jacket and shoved his feet into trainers, not even tying them properly. He kept his back to the wall as he moved. When he reached the door, he listened again. Nothing.
He opened it a crack, peeked outside.
The hallway was empty.
He slipped out, locked the door behind him, and ran down the stairs until his lungs ached. He didn’t stop until he reached the street, where lights and passing cars made the world feel normal again.
He told himself he’d never go back alone at night. He’d wait for his mum. He’d pretend the drawer never opened.
But as he turned the corner, catching his breath under a streetlamp, he finally pulled the photo from his pocket.
His stomach tightened.
The timestamp had changed.
It no longer showed last week.
It showed: Tonight.
The figure in the photo wasn’t leaning anymore.
It stood right at the door. Facing the camera.
And now, the grainy shape looked a little more like him.
