The Closet | Teen Ink

The Closet

April 25, 2018
By MatthewKutzer BRONZE, Westwood, Massachusetts
MatthewKutzer BRONZE, Westwood, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

My mother had never told me about the closet. It’s funny how she would spend hours inside of it. She said she was taking care of our cat, but I doubted that. I was lonely in the house. With my mother in the closet, gone for most of the day, it was difficult for me to entertain myself. I was an only child and my father went away when I was three.
My life was dull and boring. I grew distant from my mother throughout the years. She was constantly worrying all of the time, almost as if something were wrong. It seemed as if her thoughts were consumed by something. Something that she was hiding from me. I did not know what was wrong, but I did know that it had something to do with the closet. My curiosity crave the answer to what lay inside.
One day, I walked over to it and heard thumping noises, but she halted my investigation before I could come to any further conclusions. She said it was just the cat and not to worry. It didn’t sound like a cat though.
I could never get into the closet because it had a lock on it. It was the biggest lock that I have ever seen, which only fed my curiosity. What could be in there? I thought as my mind swerved off on a tangent. I needed to find the answer. My hunt for the key commenced and it would not conclude until the key was in the lock and the door was open.
I began my search four years ago and haven’t made much progress. I had checked everywhere in the house. One day, I went into her bedroom to search. I checked her closet, bed sheets, pillowcases, and nothing. I guess I would never be able to find the key and I gave up the daunting task of locating it.
Years passed and on my ninth birthday my mother and I were eating dinner across from each other. I notice something shiny glisten on her neck from the candlelight.
My mother never wore jewelry. She said it just got in the way. She despised it. When I saw the reflection of the light, I knew it was the answer that I had been waiting for. It was no piece of jewelry, she was wearing the key around her neck.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Now that I had found the key, I must check the closet. I rose from my bed and crept into the hallway, avoiding every possible crack in the floorboards. I got to my mother’s room and opened her closed door. My heart raced as I trekked to her bedside. She was still wearing the key. I took a knife to the chain and gently cut it off. My heart sank as she rolled over. Luckily, she remained sound asleep. I grabbed the key and crept out of the room and closed the door behind me.

Everything got so real . . .

I walked to the door. The thumping reemerged gradually growing louder and more distinct. The closet door began to shake as if it were about to ripped off the hinges. What could possibly be making the door shake like that? I thought, what could be inside? My body shook as overwhelming curiosity and fear had fused together to form a horrid tingle down my spine. It was a feeling like no other. The thumping continued and grew louder. I was scared, yet curious as to what lie inside. It could be anything. The only thing I knew for sure, is that there was no cat in there.
Key in my right hand, I grasped the lock in my left. The thumping stopped instantly when I touched the lock. It was as if it knew that I was there. I could feel my heartbeat vibrate throughout my entire body as blood pumped through my veins. I put the key into the keyhole, slowly turned the key, slid the lock off the door, and held my breath. I ever so slightly cracked the door open. I began to peered inside and saw my father. He was limbless locked in a cage barely alive. I had to save him, had to do someth--

I woke up to my mother’s voice, “Honey you shouldn’t have gone in there,” she whispered to me as she slammed the cage shut. I apologized to her. She slid a cookie through the metal cage and we never spoke of it again.

Now I lie where my father once did.

In a cage, limbless, as I scream, nearly half a decade later.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Wellesley Summer

Smith Summer

Parkland Speaks