It arrived on a Wednesday — an enormous oak wardrobe, heavy enough to make Peter and Harry swear they’d never help me move another one again.
“Solid timber,” I said, half-apologetic, half-proud. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
They nodded, breathless and unimpressed, the way men do when they’ve just been out-muscled by furniture.
When we set it down in the back room, the air seemed to change — not cold exactly, just… waiting.
The kind of silence you only get around things that have seen too much.
Every vintage dealer has a story about a haunted piece, but this one felt different — older, quieter.
The kind of piece that might’ve belonged to a seamstress… or a witch.
The boys said it had been locked when they picked it up from the deceased estate.
“We figured it was empty,” Harry shrugged. “Didn’t rattle, anyway.”
I’ve got a jar full of old keys — every vintage dealer does — so later that afternoon I tried a few.
The third one turned in the lock with a click so soft it sounded almost relieved.
Inside wasn’t darkness.
It was light — a pale shimmer that moved like dust in water.
And then I saw her: a girl, about sixteen, curled gently against the back panel.
Her skin was warm but cool at once, as though she’d fallen asleep in another season.
Not dead. Not alive, either. Just resting, like something half-stitched — waiting for the thread to pick up again.
Beckham padded in then, tail puffed, ears tilted forward.
He circled the wardrobe twice, sat, and stared into the half-open door.
His whiskers quivered, but he didn’t hiss — just blinked slowly, the way cats do when they see something they recognise.
After a moment, he rubbed himself against the leg of the wardrobe, purring low, as if greeting an old friend.
When I looked closer, the space inside seemed to breathe — not with air, but with memory.
For a heartbeat, I thought I saw the shape of the girl again, made of light and dust and something older than both.
Then she was gone, like a reflection when you move your head.
All that remained was the scent of lavender, mothballs, and the faint tang of metal — the old smell of sewing scissors.
And there, in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, I found a scrap of fabric folded neatly in two.
Someone had embroidered one small word in gold thread:
Apprentice.
I’ve brought home enough haunted pieces to know when a story’s just begun.
Maybe she isn’t a witch at all.
Maybe she’s just a girl who loved the craft so much she couldn’t bear to stop.
I locked the wardrobe again that night.
But in the morning, the key was gone.
Join me next week for Part Two…