The Sceptic, The Believer and the Wardrobe

Standing in front of the wardrobe, Anya pondered on her problem. She decided the best way to get rounded advice was to approach two friends with very different outlooks on life.

Her shortlist was short. John was a police officer, sweet on her for years, allergic to anything “woo-woo.” Zelda was a Reiki healer, sometime medium, and still “Zoe” in Anya’s head from school days.

She met John in a Caffè Nero because he only liked chain restaurants. Zelda got the dingy, bleach-resistant pub she adored.

Anya opened with, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

John practically exploded. “Jesus, no! Trust me, with the things I’ve seen, I’d know if ghosts were real. They aren’t. Catch yourself on.” A confident opener from a man who openly boasted he’d never willingly read a book.

Zelda’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely! Look at our place in the universe, a virus on a speck of sand, circling a small fireball in a vast, empty cosmos. You think we can explain everything? That we’re alone? How awful would that be?” Fair point, if wildly off-topic. And the arm waving was performative. 

Anya pressed on. “If ghosts aren’t real, but I’m talking to someone who died a while ago… how can that be explained? And it’s not my mother, before you ask.”

John softened. “You’ve been under stress. Your mum’s not long buried. If you’re hearing voices, see your GP.” Solid, practical John.

Zelda leaned in, grinning widely. “Talk back! Do you know how lucky you are? Ask what it wants. Listen. This is a gift.”

Gift did not feel like the right word. But talking to it did make Anya feel better.

Life had given her a kicking lately. She had lost her mum, the family home, and ended up in a small terrace on the edge of a West Belfast estate, furnished entirely with the previous owner’s things. She missed the sound of someone asking if she wanted tea. Missed being cared for. Hated being alone. 

John broke her reverie. “Why do you ask?” Zelda said, “Who’s talking to you?”

Anya’s voice was flat. “The old lady who owned my house. She talks to me from inside her old wardrobe.”

John blinked. Zelda’s eyes shone.

John took Anya’s hand gently in his and patted it kindly. He leaned forward and made eye contact, a picture of pious pity on his plain face. “No, she isn’t, Anya,” he whispered, as if trying to soothe a spooked foal. “Audio hallucinations. That’s what you’re experiencing. Now. Tell me. What have you been hearing?”

Zelda grabbed both Anya’s hands in hers, eyes almost manic with excitement. “Shut. The. Front. Door!” she squealed, attracting attention from the bored regulars around her. “Are you serious?! What does she say?”

“Well…” Anya took a beat to consider how she answered them. “She’d like me to bring over more people. So, they can also talk to her.”

John cocked his head to the side. Continuing in the same whispery tone a nursery teacher might use to speak to a four-year-old who had just shat their pants: “And would you like that someone to be me, Anya Bananya? Hmm?”

Zelda shot to her feet, looming over her. “Me! Me! Me! I want to speak to her! Can I come and meet her?!” she blurted; hands raised in the air like the overeager, annoying schoolgirl she used to be.

“Yes,” Anya told them both

They came the following Thursday. Anya had told Zelda six, John seven, ensuring both arrived together. John brought flowers. Zelda, reduced-sticker croissants. The kitchen reeked of bleach but couldn’t mask the foul odour seeping in from the hallway.

When the kettle boiled and switched off, Anya hesitated. Ignoring the three cups with teabags in them, she said “Why don’t I take you both up to the third floor?”  

 “To the creepy attic-that’s-not-an-attic?” Zelda asked. 

“Yes,” Anya smiled tightly. 

“It started with scratching,” she told them as the climbed the stairs. “I thought, mice. Set traps. But then I heard it.” Knock. Knock. Knock. She rapped on the banister. “Coming from the wardrobe. I opened it. And the knocking stopped.”

They climbed. Past the toilet. Past the office. Past the bedroom. The smell thickened, dead rodents and damp. At the top of the next flight was a heavy wooden door with a new silver deadbolt.

“When did you add that?” Zelda asked. 

“When the scratching started,” Anya lied. She unlocked it. The room was huge, bare but for an ornate walnut wardrobe in the far corner. Light seeped through dirty lace curtains.

“What did you do with the rest of the furniture?” John asked, sweeping his eyes around the room.

“I took it to the recycling centre. That’s what prompted her to make contact. Don’t dismantle this,” Anya said, stroking the wood. “that’s the first thing she told me.”

“Uhuh. And who was ‘she’ when she was alive?” John asked.

Anya’s voice softened. “The woman in the wardrobe? She lived here with her daughter. Then her daughter’s lover joined them. And eventually her granddaughter. Then it was just her again. She killed them all, you see.”

Zelda laughed nervously. “I’m sure that’s not true. An urban myth.” She walked to Anya and threaded an arm round her waist. 

“No. She told me. She smothered her daughter and framed the daughter’s lover. Once they were both gone, dead and jailed, she locked the granddaughter in this wardrobe until she stopped crying for her parents. It wasn’t for nothing. It was their youth she wanted. Their life force.” Anya caressed the wardrobe as she spoke. “Do you know, she was one hundred and four when she died. Isn’t that incredible?” 

“What? Um. Hang on. Remind me. Why did she want you to bring people over?” John asked, sounding confused, his earlier confidence gone. 

Abruptly, Anya swung open the wardrobe door. John and Zelda flinched, before looking in. 

The black within seemed endless. A gateway to another world. 

John and Zelda stared inside; heart rates elevated slightly as instinct told them to be wary.

Anya slipped Zelda’s arm from her waist and silently began to tiptoe backward, toward the door.

John and Zelda drifted closer together as they peered inside, unable to look away. 

“Do you… do you see something?” John asked Zelda softly, peering intently into the wardrobe.

“I think so,” Zelda answered, eyes straining. “I’m not sure.”

“Anya,” John said over his shoulder, “what did the woman ask, specifically?”

Ah, still practical as ever, Anya thought. So typically, John.

“It was a riddle. It took me a while to figure it out. I had to translate parts of it.”

“Translate from what?” Zelda asked, staring into the inky depths of the wardrobe.

“Irish. The woman was from the Gaeltacht in Donegal originally. She was run out of there. Accused of witchcraft.”

“Of course. Remind me what a Gaeltacht is,” John said, sounding very far away.

“It’s the Irish-speaking part of Donegal, ya Prod,” Zelda answered for Anya. “What was the riddle?”

“One foot in shadow, one foot in sun,
I wait in the wardrobe, neither dead nor gone.
Bring me one Amhrasach, or one Creideach
To seal the lock and feed the fire.
Choose with care, dear soul
For one shall suffice and one will make fall
Any missteps shall vex what should not roam
And curse the hearth that you call home.”

“I don’t remember much Irish.” Zelda said, slurring slightly. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“I don’t know any Irish.” John echoed in a small voice.

“Amhrasach is sceptic. Creideach is believer. She wanted one of those, but it’s not clear which one,” Anya said, from the doorway. “So, I thought it best to bring one of each. That way I couldn’t be displease her.”

“You… what?” John said softly, running a hand over his brow as he continued to stare intently into the wardrobe.

“Oh!” gasped Zelda.

A hand slid from the dark and closed around Zelda’s. Cold. Thin. She did not pull away. Black lace brushed her skin as the rest of the arm emerged, slow as a spider. An old, veiled woman stepped out, eyes burning.

Anya slipped from the room, closed the door, slid the bolt.

The screaming started before she reached the kitchen. She flicked the kettle on again. Tore a piece from a croissant. 

Banging joined the screams. A thud shook the ceiling. It would be over soon.

The kettle clicked. She sat. She was not sure if the woman was a ghost, a witch, or something else entirely. But she was there. She listened. 

And Anya had needed that. More than she needed her friends.

She put one teacup back in the cupboard. 

There would only be two for tea.