Victoria thinks a holiday in the country will be dull until Grandma Lula's old sideboard starts talking, arguing, and hearing something outside after dark.
Victoria had spent the whole train ride dreading the holidays at Grandma Lula's house in the country. No friends. No shops. Just trees, mud, and a long, quiet road that seemed to go on forever.
The house itself crouched at the edge of the woods, half-hidden by climbing ivy and tangled roses. Inside, the living room was warm and busy-looking, with colourful carpets, sagging bookshelves, and a huge dark-brown sideboard that took up most of one wall. Its carved legs looked like lion paws. Its handles curled in gold, like sleepy little leaves.
Grandma Lula said it was older than the house and twice as stubborn.
Victoria almost believed her on the first evening, though she would never have admitted it aloud.
That night she woke suddenly, certain someone had whispered her name. She lay still in the dark, listening. The house creaked. Wind brushed the windows. Then the whisper came again, faint but clear, from downstairs.
Victoria slipped out of bed, padded across the hallway, and opened her bedroom door a crack. A strip of moonlight stretched along the stairs. The living room below was silver and still.
Then a grumpy voice snapped, "Again? Must I spend every night standing here half-open?"
Victoria clutched the banister.
The sideboard's middle drawer slid inward with a huff, then bumped forward again, as if it had changed its mind. One of the handles gave a sharp little shiver.
"If people would only close me properly," the sideboard muttered, "I might be able to sleep in peace."
A thinner voice piped up from inside. "I need air! You can't keep a sugar bowl trapped forever."
Victoria stared. The porcelain sugar bowl on the sideboard shelf had a tiny gold flower painted on its lid, and it was trembling so hard that the lid clicked against the rim.
From somewhere behind it came the clink of teacups.
"Hush," said the sideboard, sounding offended. "Night is for rest, not noise."
"Easy for you to say," said a cup in a sharp, offended squeak. "You have drawers. Some of us have to listen to everybody."
Victoria stepped into the room without meaning to. Her socks made no sound on the rug, but every object on the sideboard seemed to notice her at once. The handles went still. The drawers stopped murmuring. Even the sugar bowl held its breath.
Victoria sat down on the carpet, wide-eyed, her heart thudding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The sideboard was talking.
Not squeaking like a loose hinge. Not rattling in the wind. Talking.
"Well?" said the sideboard at last, in a dry, annoyed voice. "Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to help?"
"Help with what?" Victoria whispered.
Before anyone could answer, a new voice floated down from the top shelf. It was soft and sharp at the same time, like a pin being drawn from a cushion.
"Quiet," it said. "Do you hear that?"
Every drawer in the sideboard went still.
Victoria held her breath. At first she heard only the ticking clock in the hall and the wind worrying the branches outside. Then, faintly, from beyond the kitchen window, came a sound she could not place: a slow scrape against the wall.
One of the teacups gave a tiny, frightened clatter.
The sideboard shook from top to bottom.
"Close the door," it said, but its voice was no longer grumpy. It was afraid.
Victoria turned toward the window.
Something moved in the garden, just beyond the moonlit grass. A dark shape slipped between the trees and stopped beneath the living-room window.
And then, very gently, from the other side of the glass, came a knock.