Claire's Closet

Claire’s Closet

They said Claire was just imaginative. But when the clock struck midnight, Brenda learned the truth hiding in the pink shadows.

Brenda adjusted her shoulder bag and smiled politely as Teresa lingered at the front door, keys in hand but hesitation in her eyes.

“She’s sweet,” Brenda said, glancing toward the staircase where Claire had vanished moments earlier.

Teresa’s smile faltered. “She is. But… therapy isn’t working. We’re hopeful, though.”

Brenda tilted her head. “Therapy?”

“She thinks there’s a monster in her closet,” Teresa said, voice low. “She’s convinced it’s real. We’ve tried everything—night lights, stuffed animals, even a priest once. Nothing helps.”

Brenda blinked. “A priest?”

Teresa chuckled nervously. “I know. Just—don’t let her scare you. She’s imaginative. But she’s harmless.”

Brenda nodded, watching Teresa disappear into the night. The door clicked shut, leaving the house quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. Midnight was approaching.

The house was old—Victorian bones with mahogany stairs and creaky floorboards. The living room smelled faintly of dust and lavender. Brenda settled onto the couch, flipping through her phone, until the clock struck twelve.

Dong… dong… dong…

She looked up. Silence followed.

Then came the voice.

“Brendaaaa…”

It was soft, sing-song, coming from upstairs.

Brenda stood, heart thudding. “Claire?”

“Can you come check my closet?” the voice called again.

Brenda climbed the stairs slowly. The hallway was dim, lit only by a flickering sconce. Claire’s door was slightly ajar, pink light spilling out like cotton candy fog.

Inside, the room was a shrine to girlhood—walls painted bubblegum pink, shelves lined with Barbies, ponies, glittery tiaras. A canopy bed draped in sheer fabric sat in the center, and Claire perched on its edge, legs swinging.

She looked up with wide blue eyes. “Can you check for monsters?”

Brenda smiled. “Sure, honey.”

She knelt beside the bed, peeking under it. Dust bunnies. A lost slipper. Nothing more.

“Not there,” Claire said. “In the closet.”

Brenda turned. The closet door stood tall and pale, its brass knob tarnished. A unicorn sticker peeled at the corner. The overhead light was out, leaving the closet in shadow.

Brenda opened the door. Inside, rows of tiny dresses, jackets, and plush coats hung neatly. The air smelled of fabric softener and something faintly metallic.

She reached in, pushing clothes aside.

“Deeper,” Claire whispered.

Brenda frowned. “There’s nothing here.”

“Deeper,” Claire repeated, voice flat.

Brenda leaned in. The closet seemed… longer than it should be. Her fingers brushed sequins, lace, then something damp. She paused.

The darkness swallowed her hand.

She reached further, fingertips grazing something slick. Then—

Hands.

Two long, slimy fingers wrapped around her wrists. The nails were jagged, yellowed, curling like claws. The skin was cold, rubbery, and reeked of rot.

Brenda screamed.

From the closet, a guttural cackle erupted—high-pitched and wet, like laughter through a mouthful of blood. Glowing red eyes blinked open in the void, hovering inches from Brenda’s face.

The closet door slammed shut.

Claire sat on her bed, humming softly.

The sounds began—wet tearing, muffled shrieks, bones snapping like twigs.

Claire picked up a Barbie and brushed its hair.

The grandfather clock ticked.

Eventually, silence.

The closet door creaked open. A single curl of Brenda’s hair drifted out, snagged on a coat hanger.

Claire stood, walked to the closet, and whispered, “Thank you.”

The red eyes blinked once, then vanished.

She turned back to her bed, climbed in, and pulled the covers to her chin.

Downstairs, the clock struck one.