There’s a dead boy in my closet. I know because I hear him at night rummaging through my dirty laundry like a rat through garbage. I used to hear him only occasionally, but it has become more and more frequent. For a while, I heard him every night.
He usually cries, too. At first it was soft sobs; raindrops on a butterfly’s wings, but as his appearances became more common, the soft sobs turned to gentle wails and the gentle wails to an orchestral storm.
Occasionally, he turns the light on. I’ll be lying on my side in bed staring at the closet door listening to his symphony of cries, sobs, and gasps when an orange glow suddenly appears from under the closed door and the cries cease. Two black pillars emerge from the orange light; his tiny legs create fuzzy shadows in the glow as he stands just inches from the door.
Once he arrives at this spot he never moves. He stands there all night. And my gaze remains right there with him; fixated on the sliver of orange and the two black pillars.
Just before dawn, the light vanishes and the cries do not return. I get what sleep I can.
It is always the same when I enter the closet the next morning. Things will be moved around slightly; shirts knocked from their hangers and shoes and belts moved slightly askew as if they were fiddled with by wandering hands. There is always an article of clothing hanging from the lightbulb in the middle of the closet, covered in dried blood.
Sometimes it is a tie, smeared with blood; a handkerchief for crimson tears. Other times it is a white dress shirt covered with tiny red handprints and finger smudges; artwork from the kindergarten classroom of a nightmare.
Once it was an entire suit hanging from the light. Like a failed businessman had decided to end it all, only his body had vanished, leaving nothing behind but his cheap suit and the lingering smell of alcohol. It was stained with the boy’s blood.
As I took the invisible hangman down I caught a glimpse of some letters, originally hidden from my view by the jacket, written on the white dress shirt.
“Play,” the reddish-brown letters said.
My emotional dam failed. The weeks of child’s tears had taken their toll, and this simple four letter word, and the memory it awoke, was too much to bear. I began to scream and cry and tear down the clothes.
“Go away!” I shouted. I grabbed the tie and tugged, the suit fell to the ground, taking the light bulb with it. “What do you want from me! I have nothing for you! Nothing!” I slumped to the floor in a pile of tears and darkness, “Nothing,” I repeated. “…nothing.”
The next night the dead boy’s cries returned. Only this time, it was no symphony. There were no heavy sobs or labored gasps. The cries were muffled, like a child crying into his mother’s shoulder. The light never turned on and the boy never crept close to the door; or if he did, he did so silently and in darkness.
In the morning no bloody clothes hung from the new lightbulb and my belts and shoes were exactly as I had left them.
For the following week the muffled cries continued, never growing too loud or too quiet; simply remaining constant. The light never turned on and the black pillars never stood firmly planted in the orange glow. Each morning I opened the door and looked immediately at the new lightbulb and, each morning, there it was; bright, but stark and devoid of any garments.
But tonight is different. As the muffled cries quickly become the soundtrack to my slumber and my lids become too heavy to keep open, light suddenly appears from beneath the door and the closet handle slowly turns. The door cracks open, an orange wedge spills across my duvet. I pull the covers above my head like a frightened toddler. The pitter-patter of tiny feet slaps across the vinyl floor and up to the edge of my bed.
He stares at me, his backlit outline clear through the cotton sheet. I know if I just look at him he will leave me alone. But I can’t. It is instinctual, like every fiber of my being telling me not to step off the high dive for the first time. I stay under my protective shield.
And then the sobs begin.
Slowly at first. The muffled cries I had become so used to quickly grow to the storm I once knew, and beyond.
Wails and screams. Deep, gasping breaths and screamed pleads. A thousand voices at once, each one more tortured than the last, but from a common source. “Play.” Louder and louder. Pleading wails. Crying breaths. Pained shouts. The voices swim around me like a school of agitated fish.
I remember. I have been here before. Many times. It begins again.
The screams penetrate me like tiny darts. Each one stings more than the last.
“Please.”
Tears well in my eyes and I begin to shake.
“Play.”
I can’t catch my breath.
“I just wanted…”
I grow lightheaded as the cacophony increases.
“…to play.”
I scream. It goes unheard
“I’m sorry!”
I kick and punch at the sheets constricting me like a 600-thread-count python.
“I’M SORRY!”
Anger drapes his voice.
The sheets tighten. I lunge at the boy’s silhouette, still unmoving at the edge of my bed. I fall straight to the floor. My head hits the vinyl with a wet smack.
All is silent.
I awake with a headache that is exacerbated by the bright light of the closet; dried blood acts as an adhesive between my face and the floor. The door is closed. How did I get in here?
The light begins to flicker, blinding me like the headlights of an oncoming car. An oncoming car…
I know what happens next.