The old dresser dominated my childhood bedroom like a mahogany monolith. Mother always said it had been in the family for generations, passed down from her great-grandmother. I never questioned why such an imposing piece ended up in a child’s room.

“Sarah, dinner’s ready!” Mom’s voice echoed from downstairs.

“Coming!” I called back, but my eyes remained fixed on the dresser’s brass handles, gleaming dully in the fading light. After fifteen years away, being back in this room felt surreal.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” Dad noted over dinner. His weathered face carried more lines than I remembered.

“Just jet-lagged,” I mumbled, pushing peas around my plate. “And the dresser… it seems different somehow.”

Mom’s fork clattered against her plate. “Different how?”

“Heavier. More… present.” The words felt inadequate. “Last night, I could have sworn I heard—”

“It’s just an old piece of furniture,” Mom cut in sharply. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her wine glass.

That night, I lay awake, watching shadows dance across the dresser’s scarred surface. A soft scratching sound emanated from within.

tap… tap… tap…

“Hello?” I whispered, immediately feeling foolish.

The tapping stopped.

Then came a voice, barely audible: “Sarah… remember…”

I bolted upright. The voice was familiar – impossibly familiar.

“Emily?” I breathed my sister’s name for the first time in fifteen years.

The dresser’s doors creaked open slightly. Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of old wood and something else… something metallic.

“Mom!” I screamed, “Dad!”

They burst in moments later, faces pale in the moonlight.

“The dresser,” I pointed with trembling fingers. “Emily… she’s…”

“Stop it!” Mom’s voice cracked like a whip. “We don’t speak of her!”

But Dad moved closer, his expression unreadable. “Maybe it’s time, Margaret.”

“No!” Mom backed away, shaking her head violently. “We agreed… we agreed…”

The tapping resumed, louder now.

TAP… TAP… TAP…

“What happened to Emily?” I demanded, memories stirring like disturbed dust. “What really happened that summer?”

Mom collapsed against the doorframe, sobbing. Dad’s shoulders sagged as he approached the dresser.

“Your sister…” he began, reaching for the handles.

The room plunged into darkness. When the lights flickered back on seconds later, the dresser doors stood wide open, drawers extended like accusing fingers.

Empty.

But there, scratched into the back panel, fresh as if carved moments ago:

“Remember the truth, Sarah.”

Mom’s hysterical laughter filled the room. “It was an accident,” she wheezed between gulps of air. “Just an accident…”

Dad gripped my shoulder. “Some memories,” he whispered, “are too heavy to move.”

I stared at the dresser, my childhood guardian, my family’s keeper of secrets. Something dark glistened at its base, seeping out like old tears.

Or old blood.

tap… tap… tap…