The Back of the Wardrobe
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A bitter winter set in early that year. Papa said it was because of all the new concords in the sky, ruining the clouds or ozone or something. I remember how the windows of the crumbling barn conversion shuddered when the planes zoomed over and the angry growling of the engines, like huge galumphing monsters, only just skimmed over the red roof. We’d only moved to Black Lake that year, something to do with Papa’s job, but as he always worked away, I didn’t know why we had to move from our nice, cosy house in the middle of Jones Town.
“Why are you always such a brat about everything?” Martha – my older sister - hissed in my ear as we were all huddled in the front of the rickety old van that took our Spartan furniture across the state. Timmy sniggered from behind his dog-eared comic book. “Yeah, you’re such a baby all the time,” one of the twins joined in – I didn’t know if it was Karen or Kenny, despite being boy and girl twins, they sounded the same to me. Kenny whipped his head round to make sure Papa in the driving seat hadn’t heard them. From the way his knuckles glowed white on the wheel and his dark, sunken eyes stared unblinkingly ahead, I guessed he hadn’t heard my brother. My eyes stung and my bottom lip wobbled as I turned to look out of the window at the tall silver buildings zooming by. |
ELIZABETH STANLEY
is an author from London, living and writing in South Wales. She has just passed her second year of a Creative Writing Degree with the Open University. Her first flash fiction, Ugly Brian, featured in the 81 Words Anthology, winner of the ‘Best Anthology’ in 2022 Saboteur Awards. |
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the new house. It was huge, with tons of good spots for hide and seek and undulating green hills outside to chase Herbert the cat round, but it seemed, even when the concords were not swooping past, it made strange noises, like scared dogs whimpering in the corners. Mamma said it was just mice in the floorboards. The thought of those furry little things with their weird naked tails made me shudder, but I never did see any.
By the middle of October, we were spending the long and dark evenings wrapped in scratchy blankets Narnie made us before we left her halfway across the world. Narnie was the name for our grandma because when Martha was little, she couldn’t say grandma, granny or even nanny and it stuck. We, that’s me and my brothers and sisters would snuggle in front of the sputtering fire with weak mugs of coco in our hands. The warmth lapped at our little faces and the toes we couldn’t quite fit under the covers. I had slippers, but there was a gaping hole in the bottom of one of them. I was really hoping for a new pair for Christmas that year, but Mamma and Papa didn’t always have enough money to get what we wanted. I wriggled my frozen toes as Martha told us stories of giants who gobbled up naughty little boys and girls and princesses who met their prince charming on horseback. Often, we fell asleep where we were, too chilly to move to the bedrooms. I preferred it that way, I had my own room in the big house and even though it had my dolly, my teddy and my books in it, I didn’t like being on my own in the dark, in case one of Martha’s child-cooking witches came and got me.
There were five of us then, and I was the youngest. Before we moved and Mamma got so fat, she would have to sway a few times before she could swing her huge stomach up off the chair. She sat me down whilst the others were playing with Herbert in the living room one day and told me with a small smile that I wasn’t going to be the baby anymore. But, once we got to the new house, she didn’t mention it again. No one did. And I never saw this baby that was supposed to be coming to live with us. Once, when I tried to bring it up at dinner, I received a sharp smack on the hand from Martha who told me to never ask again. My eyes ran rivers, and I sniffled all the way through our silent meal, feeling everyone’s eyes clawing at my skin, but did as I was told. As dutiful young Catholics, the age gap between us wasn’t much. My brothers and sisters were more like the friends I had when I went to school, and we enjoyed playing together and telling tales. Except for Martha, she was the eldest of us, and when Mamma was working at the diner and Papa was away making sales, she washed and darned our clothes and cooked us dinners of thin cabbage and onion soup.
The smell of farts clung to the furniture and flock wallpaper all night. Not only from the soup boiling away on the hob, but as my siblings and I sat cozied up together, our full bellies would let go of the gas with a rumbling guff. We’d all cover our noses with our hands and laugh until our sides hurt, trying to guess who it was that punished us with their smelly crime. Shrinking and red-faced, I never admitted when it was me, but Timmy always knew and outed me because he said I was the only one who stank of eggs. Not that Mamma often bought eggs, they were a bit too expensive for us.
Timmy was the first to go missing. Mamma was at the diner that day, working a double for half the pay as she called it when the tax man came round. Not that I knew what that meant at the time. I suppose time doesn’t have the same meaning when you’re five years old. Just five more minutes in the tub Mamma. Just five more minutes before bed Mamma. Just five more minutes in bed Mamma. All I knew was, it was just the kids and Martha at home, even when it got dark. Frantically, Martha dragged me around the ground floor and the gardens as we searched for Timmy, shouting his name, and pulling back all the curtains as I knew that was his favorite place to hide. I sighed when nothing, but cobwebs tickled my hands, wrapping themselves around my fingers like sticky ribbons. Kenny and Karen, the twins were instructed to search upstairs, under beds, behind chests of drawers and in closets, even in the rooms we never even used. I could hear the trundling of their plimsoles above my head, making the light fittings rattle gently.
I yanked open the kitchen cupboard underneath the sink and Martha tugged aside the fraying cloth over the dinner table, hoping to find Timmy scrunched up under there, brown eyes shining like brass buttons with a grin on his grubby, chubby face. But we were rewarded with nothing. My lips quivered and I felt as though I’d been holding my head underwater too long, just like the game me and Timmy would play whilst in the tub when Mamma left the room to get another kettle of hot water. Martha rubbed her chapped hands on her apron and groaned. Just as she did, the house was filled with an ear-splitting scream. It was so loud; it might as well have been straight in my ear, but I knew it must have been one of the twins, who were still hunting upstairs. The color drained from my sister’s face, and she didn’t wait for me as she bounded up the creaky stairs, calling the names of all of our siblings.
“Timmy! Kenny! Kimmy – I mean Karen,” Martha shrieked, tripping over just as many words as the steps she stumbled up.
I charged after her, as fast as my short, little legs would take me. The howling from upstairs grew louder as Martha swung open every dusty door with a bang, not worrying about the dent the huge round doorknobs left in the plasterwork. Mites hopped out of the threadbare carpet at the disturbance, and I ignored the crawling feeling over my skin as I continued after Martha, my lungs burning and acid eating my throat. As though I was helping, I too looked in every room after her, but of course, found nothing except empty beds and closets. Finally, we found the twins in the room at the very end of the hall. Well, one of the twins.
My heart beat out of my chest and sweat ran down my face as I stopped in the doorway.
“Kenny, Kenny!” Martha cried, kneeling in front of our brother, gripping the tops of his arms. “Kenny, what happened? Where’s Karen? Did you find Timmy? Talk to me!”
Kenny shook violently as a puddle of yellow spread out around his feet. His face shone with tears and his skin was whiter than the sheets Mamma put on my bed every Sunday. Like me, he juddered, but couldn’t speak through the sobs and snot bubbles.
Martha flicked her head from side to side and stood up, the rough floorboards left red welts across her knobby knees. She followed Kenny’s wild gaze and tiptoed toward the open door of the huge, dark wood closet that loomed at the end of the room. It was Mamma’s closet. I sucked in a sharp breath, like swallowing razor blades. That wasn’t surprising as it was Mamma’s and Papa’s bedroom, but ever since I could remember, the closet had been locked with a big, rusty, old key. A key that was now missing from the hook above the window. Mamma always hung it up there – out of reach - in case any of us felt a little nosey one day. I assumed that she was hiding my new slippers in there, ready for Christmas. A chill blew through the house, rustling my hair.
I padded over to Kenny and put my arm around him. I felt like a munchkin next to him, but he shrunk down to rest his cheek on the curls on the top of my head. He loudly sniffed and I grimaced at that hollow clicking sound of sticky mucus at the back of the throat, but I didn’t pull away from him. Mamma used to tell us off when she could hear that thick bubbling whilst we breathed and made us blow our noses until we saw stars into a flowery hanky, which she miraculously always had with her.
Martha turned to us with narrowed eyes and pinched cheeks.
“Did you open this?” She asked in a tight voice, pointing shakily at the wooden door that swung wistfully in the breeze.
Kenny shuddered. Goose pimples popped on his bare arms as he shook his head until I was sure it would topple off his shoulders and roll-off across the floor like Herbert’s jingling ball. We both gazed up at our sister as she towered over us and folded her arms across her chest.
“Kenny, where the hell is Karen?” Martha quizzed.
I gasped, cupping my hands over my ears. I had never heard anyone except Papa curse in the house. Mamma would smack us across our knuckles with a wooden spoon if she heard us. Martha’s nostrils flared and her face was the same red as that old tractor that sat in our front yard.
Kenny held up a jittery hand, pointing into the darkness of the closet. At the top hung heavy winter coats made of thick furs, suedes, and wool. A waft of mothballs filled the room on a cool breeze that made my petticoat dance. I bit into my bottom lip, ignoring the sting as Martha crept back toward the wardrobe on wobbling legs. Despite her care, the floorboards creaked like an old ship on the high seas.
I blinked and rubbed my burning eyes. Turning into a statue, I was sure I saw something move in amongst the coats. It darted across, a blur of grey against the blackness. Suddenly, I blew out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Thank goodness! I thought. It had to be Timmy and Karen; they were playing a little trick on us. A mean trick, but still, it was only a game. One that Martha would smack their bottoms for and put them to bed early for, but a game. I narrowed my eyes. Had Martha worked it out yet?
My heart rate settled back to normal as I turned with a grin to Kenny, knowing he would be hiding a snigger behind his hand. I felt like I had been hit in the stomach by one of Papa’s bowling balls. Kenny did have his hand over his mouth, but his eyes were wide and wild, and his skin was a sickly shade of green.
I shot my head back to see Martha and screeched her name at the top of my lungs, tasting blood. With feet rooted to the spot, I watched in terror as a gnarled hand with skin like a diseased rhino sprung from the inky night of the closet, gripping Martha round the ankle, slicing lines of crimson across her delicate skin as she was yanked backward. Shrieking, she hit the floor with a bone-crunching thud. Her fingernails bent the wrong way as she clawed at the floorboards, but there was nothing for her to grab.
With a whoosh of fabric and a puff of dust, Martha disappeared too.
By the middle of October, we were spending the long and dark evenings wrapped in scratchy blankets Narnie made us before we left her halfway across the world. Narnie was the name for our grandma because when Martha was little, she couldn’t say grandma, granny or even nanny and it stuck. We, that’s me and my brothers and sisters would snuggle in front of the sputtering fire with weak mugs of coco in our hands. The warmth lapped at our little faces and the toes we couldn’t quite fit under the covers. I had slippers, but there was a gaping hole in the bottom of one of them. I was really hoping for a new pair for Christmas that year, but Mamma and Papa didn’t always have enough money to get what we wanted. I wriggled my frozen toes as Martha told us stories of giants who gobbled up naughty little boys and girls and princesses who met their prince charming on horseback. Often, we fell asleep where we were, too chilly to move to the bedrooms. I preferred it that way, I had my own room in the big house and even though it had my dolly, my teddy and my books in it, I didn’t like being on my own in the dark, in case one of Martha’s child-cooking witches came and got me.
There were five of us then, and I was the youngest. Before we moved and Mamma got so fat, she would have to sway a few times before she could swing her huge stomach up off the chair. She sat me down whilst the others were playing with Herbert in the living room one day and told me with a small smile that I wasn’t going to be the baby anymore. But, once we got to the new house, she didn’t mention it again. No one did. And I never saw this baby that was supposed to be coming to live with us. Once, when I tried to bring it up at dinner, I received a sharp smack on the hand from Martha who told me to never ask again. My eyes ran rivers, and I sniffled all the way through our silent meal, feeling everyone’s eyes clawing at my skin, but did as I was told. As dutiful young Catholics, the age gap between us wasn’t much. My brothers and sisters were more like the friends I had when I went to school, and we enjoyed playing together and telling tales. Except for Martha, she was the eldest of us, and when Mamma was working at the diner and Papa was away making sales, she washed and darned our clothes and cooked us dinners of thin cabbage and onion soup.
The smell of farts clung to the furniture and flock wallpaper all night. Not only from the soup boiling away on the hob, but as my siblings and I sat cozied up together, our full bellies would let go of the gas with a rumbling guff. We’d all cover our noses with our hands and laugh until our sides hurt, trying to guess who it was that punished us with their smelly crime. Shrinking and red-faced, I never admitted when it was me, but Timmy always knew and outed me because he said I was the only one who stank of eggs. Not that Mamma often bought eggs, they were a bit too expensive for us.
Timmy was the first to go missing. Mamma was at the diner that day, working a double for half the pay as she called it when the tax man came round. Not that I knew what that meant at the time. I suppose time doesn’t have the same meaning when you’re five years old. Just five more minutes in the tub Mamma. Just five more minutes before bed Mamma. Just five more minutes in bed Mamma. All I knew was, it was just the kids and Martha at home, even when it got dark. Frantically, Martha dragged me around the ground floor and the gardens as we searched for Timmy, shouting his name, and pulling back all the curtains as I knew that was his favorite place to hide. I sighed when nothing, but cobwebs tickled my hands, wrapping themselves around my fingers like sticky ribbons. Kenny and Karen, the twins were instructed to search upstairs, under beds, behind chests of drawers and in closets, even in the rooms we never even used. I could hear the trundling of their plimsoles above my head, making the light fittings rattle gently.
I yanked open the kitchen cupboard underneath the sink and Martha tugged aside the fraying cloth over the dinner table, hoping to find Timmy scrunched up under there, brown eyes shining like brass buttons with a grin on his grubby, chubby face. But we were rewarded with nothing. My lips quivered and I felt as though I’d been holding my head underwater too long, just like the game me and Timmy would play whilst in the tub when Mamma left the room to get another kettle of hot water. Martha rubbed her chapped hands on her apron and groaned. Just as she did, the house was filled with an ear-splitting scream. It was so loud; it might as well have been straight in my ear, but I knew it must have been one of the twins, who were still hunting upstairs. The color drained from my sister’s face, and she didn’t wait for me as she bounded up the creaky stairs, calling the names of all of our siblings.
“Timmy! Kenny! Kimmy – I mean Karen,” Martha shrieked, tripping over just as many words as the steps she stumbled up.
I charged after her, as fast as my short, little legs would take me. The howling from upstairs grew louder as Martha swung open every dusty door with a bang, not worrying about the dent the huge round doorknobs left in the plasterwork. Mites hopped out of the threadbare carpet at the disturbance, and I ignored the crawling feeling over my skin as I continued after Martha, my lungs burning and acid eating my throat. As though I was helping, I too looked in every room after her, but of course, found nothing except empty beds and closets. Finally, we found the twins in the room at the very end of the hall. Well, one of the twins.
My heart beat out of my chest and sweat ran down my face as I stopped in the doorway.
“Kenny, Kenny!” Martha cried, kneeling in front of our brother, gripping the tops of his arms. “Kenny, what happened? Where’s Karen? Did you find Timmy? Talk to me!”
Kenny shook violently as a puddle of yellow spread out around his feet. His face shone with tears and his skin was whiter than the sheets Mamma put on my bed every Sunday. Like me, he juddered, but couldn’t speak through the sobs and snot bubbles.
Martha flicked her head from side to side and stood up, the rough floorboards left red welts across her knobby knees. She followed Kenny’s wild gaze and tiptoed toward the open door of the huge, dark wood closet that loomed at the end of the room. It was Mamma’s closet. I sucked in a sharp breath, like swallowing razor blades. That wasn’t surprising as it was Mamma’s and Papa’s bedroom, but ever since I could remember, the closet had been locked with a big, rusty, old key. A key that was now missing from the hook above the window. Mamma always hung it up there – out of reach - in case any of us felt a little nosey one day. I assumed that she was hiding my new slippers in there, ready for Christmas. A chill blew through the house, rustling my hair.
I padded over to Kenny and put my arm around him. I felt like a munchkin next to him, but he shrunk down to rest his cheek on the curls on the top of my head. He loudly sniffed and I grimaced at that hollow clicking sound of sticky mucus at the back of the throat, but I didn’t pull away from him. Mamma used to tell us off when she could hear that thick bubbling whilst we breathed and made us blow our noses until we saw stars into a flowery hanky, which she miraculously always had with her.
Martha turned to us with narrowed eyes and pinched cheeks.
“Did you open this?” She asked in a tight voice, pointing shakily at the wooden door that swung wistfully in the breeze.
Kenny shuddered. Goose pimples popped on his bare arms as he shook his head until I was sure it would topple off his shoulders and roll-off across the floor like Herbert’s jingling ball. We both gazed up at our sister as she towered over us and folded her arms across her chest.
“Kenny, where the hell is Karen?” Martha quizzed.
I gasped, cupping my hands over my ears. I had never heard anyone except Papa curse in the house. Mamma would smack us across our knuckles with a wooden spoon if she heard us. Martha’s nostrils flared and her face was the same red as that old tractor that sat in our front yard.
Kenny held up a jittery hand, pointing into the darkness of the closet. At the top hung heavy winter coats made of thick furs, suedes, and wool. A waft of mothballs filled the room on a cool breeze that made my petticoat dance. I bit into my bottom lip, ignoring the sting as Martha crept back toward the wardrobe on wobbling legs. Despite her care, the floorboards creaked like an old ship on the high seas.
I blinked and rubbed my burning eyes. Turning into a statue, I was sure I saw something move in amongst the coats. It darted across, a blur of grey against the blackness. Suddenly, I blew out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Thank goodness! I thought. It had to be Timmy and Karen; they were playing a little trick on us. A mean trick, but still, it was only a game. One that Martha would smack their bottoms for and put them to bed early for, but a game. I narrowed my eyes. Had Martha worked it out yet?
My heart rate settled back to normal as I turned with a grin to Kenny, knowing he would be hiding a snigger behind his hand. I felt like I had been hit in the stomach by one of Papa’s bowling balls. Kenny did have his hand over his mouth, but his eyes were wide and wild, and his skin was a sickly shade of green.
I shot my head back to see Martha and screeched her name at the top of my lungs, tasting blood. With feet rooted to the spot, I watched in terror as a gnarled hand with skin like a diseased rhino sprung from the inky night of the closet, gripping Martha round the ankle, slicing lines of crimson across her delicate skin as she was yanked backward. Shrieking, she hit the floor with a bone-crunching thud. Her fingernails bent the wrong way as she clawed at the floorboards, but there was nothing for her to grab.
With a whoosh of fabric and a puff of dust, Martha disappeared too.