It was more of an almirah. This particular almirah belonged to my great grandfather’s grandpa, and he wasn’t really known for fighting for equality in gender.
He married fourteen times, and divorced thirteen times.
At least, that was the story the public heard.
The truth behind the matter was that he was desperate for a boy, and his first thirteen wives bore only female children.
So, he killed each wife that bore him a female child.
(If you want to stop reading now, you may. This story is not going to get any prettier.)
After murdering one, he would pick up her body, and take it to his private room. He’d walk over to his almirah, open it, and toss the corpse inside. This went on for thirteen times, until his fourteenth wife gave birth to a boy.
But, after seventeen years, when the son had begun to earn a living in the city, his wife happened to find his private room; the one with the almirah of Hades. She opened the almirah, and found the horrors inside. She choked, and gulped in air, and looked around in terror. She stood paralyzed on the spot.
Suddenly, her husband stormed into the room, and looked at her, and the almirah. In the hand to hand battle that ensued, the husband killed his wife, but, as he was placing her body in the almirah, several hands rose from inside the almirah, and dragged him in.
Many generations later, this almirah somehow found its way to Carter Aldridge’s daughter’s room.
Once in a while, it would rattle, but almost unnoticeably. I have absolutely no idea what his daughter had kept in the almirah; she probably left it empty, because of the cobwebs and the weird smell hanging around it.
Nighttime, however, was an entirely different story. If you ventured near the almirah at night, you would hear the names of his fourteen wives being chanted, and they were all in pain.
This is an event that took place on the third of March, at precisely ten in the night. His daughter had returned from a late-night party, and she fell on her bed in light sleep.
She awoke to a push on her right shoulder.
Without looking up, she said, “After sometime, Dad.”
A mix match of fifteen different voices hoarsely said in unison,
“But we are not ‘Dad’.”
A muffled scream, and then, the noises died out. The almirah shut itself closed again.
A friend was on a video call with me a few days ago; he was telling me about the almirah.
He was narrating this sequence of events, as his almirah opened by itself. I looked closer at the video, and suddenly, a hand grabbed my friend’s shoulder, and dragged him inside the almirah.
At first, I thought it was a practical joke. But, I thought it was good story material, so I wrote this.
A hand covered my mouth, and dragged me into my almirah.
It all went black. Maybe it’s because I wrote about it. Maybe it targets all those who know about it.
The tale of the abominable spirit of the almirah.
You know its history now.
Take care. It’s after you.