This Is Why I Don't Buy Pre-Owned Furniture

by Gregory Meyer

For as long as I can remember, my mother has enjoyed collecting antiques in her spare time. If money hadn’t been an issue, she probably would’ve furnished our entire home with the precious items that caught her fancy at mom-and-pop antique shops, decorated with little wooden chairs, tables, and china cats in the windows. She first developed an interest in antiques when my sister, Dawn, and I were still young children. The two of us shared a cramped bedroom, and my mother placed porcelain dolls on our dressers and shelves as decoration. We hated it, always thinking that at a moments notice, the dolls would twist their necks around and stare at us with their cold, empty eyes. On a few occasions, I swear we saw them move when they thought no one was looking.

Forgive me, I’m getting off track. I only bring this up as an example; because this wouldn’t be the last time my mother brought something seemingly harmless into the house that would prove to be anything but peaceful.

After my mother’s doll phase, she spruced up the living room, replacing their outdated furniture set for something classical styled. She tossed the dusty rinky-dink lamps in favor of looming floor lamps with elegant ceramic light covers. Wobbly end tables and bookshelves went to the second hand store as old, dark wood replacements took their places. After mom trashed the old couch in favor of a newer, floral style couch, we thought her sweeping living room renovations were over, but oh, how wrong we were.

My great-grandmother had passed away a few years previous. She was a wonderful woman, and I consider myself lucky that I had a chance to know her while she was still alive. My mother had been very close to her grandmother, and while she was at peace with her passing, she wanted to do something to carry on her legacy. My great-grandmother quilted as a hobby when she was younger, and my mother inherited some of the quilts and patterns that she had in her collection. Simply having the quilts in her possession brought my mother genuine comfort and peace, but she wanted more.

For a short period of time, my mother attempted to continue her great-grandmother’s legacy by taking up quilting, but the combined demands on her time from both our family and work made a swift end to that endeavor. In response, my mother commissioned people she trusted to finish up some of the incomplete quilts so they wouldn’t sit around the house unfinished. This left my family with five ornate quilts worthy to pass down in our family for generations, and absolutely no place to store them.

  Not wanting the quilts to end up as fancy cat beds, mom took matters into her own hands one Saturday morning after I left for work. When I came home that afternoon after a long, monotonous day scanning groceries, I found my mother admiring an old rectangular box sitting against the living room wall, as if it was a legendary treasure chest holding some long forgotten artifact.

My mother looked so pleased. Finally, she had a place to store her quilts without the fear of bugs eating holes through them, or our cat Cocoa ripping them to shreds with her claws. My dad, who had brought the cedar chest in with his friend Jack, drank a soda at the table, teasing my mother about, what was in his eyes, another unnecessary purchase.  My mom ignored his ribbing, she had what she wanted.

I left the two of them as I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes. Reaching the landing, I found Dawn waiting for me in front of her room, the same room that we once shared as children. She had an annoyed expression plastered on her face; and I didn’t have to wait long to find out what was bugging her.

“Did you see it?” asked Dawn. “She bought another piece of furniture to hog the living room when it’s cramped as it is. Where are my friends supposed to sit when I have them over?”

Over the years, I found it best to let my sister rant when she gets angry until she cooled down. So I let her vent, hoping it would expel itself from her system. It wasn’t the first time she let something miniscule blow up into the world’s biggest problem.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “It looks nice enough.”

Dawn arched an eyebrow, then crossed her arms and leaned against her open bedroom doorway. She lowered the tone of her voice, not wanting to get the attention of our parents.

“I don’t like it,” she confided.  “Has a weird smell, too. They can’t smell it, but I do.”

“What kind of smell?” I inquired. I didn’t recall smelling anything out of the ordinary, but I had only been downstairs for about a minute. Dawn shrugged her shoulders, the most helpful of all answers.

“Dunno, but whatever it is it reeks.”

Opening the door to my room, I flashed a smirk to her as I took a step inside to take an afternoon nap.

                “Well, with all those quilts out of your room, I’m sure mom’ll be happy to put the dolls back to keep you company,” I joked. “She knows how much you like them.” I ducked inside my room and locked my bedroom door before she could slap my arm.

                Later that afternoon, I took a better look at the cedar chest. Mom and dad were out grocery shopping, so I could investigate without the two of them wondering what I was doing. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The rectangular chest had a deep brown color with a tan stripe lining that decorated the trim around the lid. The wood had a smooth finish, slick to the touch due to a thorough polishing with Old English from my mother.

I steadied the lid against the wall so the wooden slab wouldn’t fall and crack my skull while I peered inside. As I leaned over the box my nose wrinkled as a foul smell wafted to my nostrils. Dawn couldn’t identify the stench, I could. It reminded me of the time a friend of mine who fancied herself as a pyro burned a stray hair with our gas oven burner. The detestable burning stench etched itself in the memory section of my olfactory. Other less distinct odors mingled with the burnt hair smell, like herbs or spices from my mother’s kitchen seasonings, but with a repugnant, spoiled quality to it.

I dug through the quilts trying to find the stench’s source, pulling them out one at a time. I figured Dawn must’ve had the same idea, based on the disheveled condition of the top quilt. As I grabbed and sniffed each sheet, my hand brushed against something underneath the crumpled fabric. I dropped the quilt and drew back my hand, like touching a hot surface. I felt it for only a passing moment, but whatever it was felt unmistakably solid, like something had been wrapped inside of the blanket. If it hadn’t seemed so preposterous, I could’ve sworn I touched an arm. Yet when I pressed down on the fabric again, I felt nothing. Even after I dumped each quilt out of the cedar chest and shook them, I couldn’t account for what I touched.  With some hesitation I folded the blankets back in the cedar chest, unsatisfied, but unable to do much else.

The next few days were relatively calm. Most of it was spent out of the house at school or my part time job. When I was home, I’d casually ask my sister questions about the cedar chest as to not cause any unnecessary alarm, but she thought I was making fun of her, so she wouldn’t answer. Dawn was an internet addict, so she never spent much time downstairs unless eating with my family, or while watching her favorite anime shows. Now, with the chest in the living room, Dawn looked for reasons to completely avoid being near it.

Midway through the week I decided to watch some old VHS movies while working on my homework. The work was mindless, as with most high school busywork, so I didn’t have to pay much attention to it. As Luke was training with Yoda in Empire Strikes Back, I had that feeling where you know you’re being watched by someone. I grabbed the TV remote and muted it, but as soon as I did I heard the lid to the cedar chest thump against the rest of the box. Confused, I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I was just imagining things, before resuming my work. Not a minute later I heard shifting and rustling coming from inside the cedar chest. I muted the VHS, but again the sound stopped. Frustrated, I got up from the couch and opened the cedar chest. Pulling out the quilts once again, I found the chest completely empty. Whatever was causing this mischief was really getting on my nerves.

Later that night, I finished my evening ritual of loading the dishes in the dishwasher while listening to music. Some teenagers despise chores like this, but I always found it relaxing. Just a simple task that allows you time alone to your thoughts, and I’d often use this time to work through personal issues with my friends or family. After starting the cycle and turning the kitchen lights off, I headed towards the front door to check if it was locked before heading upstairs. I’d often leave the living room lights off, as the upstairs hallway light could illuminate my path. As I made my way to the door, I felt Cocoa brush up against my right leg, most likely heading towards the kitchen for a late night snack. After glancing at the door, satisfied that the door was indeed locked, I headed upstairs for bed.

The ceiling fan light in Dawn’s room burned through the slight crack in the door she left open so Cocoa could come in and out as she pleased. I stuck my head inside and spied her typing away in a chatroom. I wished her goodnight, and she swiveled around in her computer chair and wished me goodnight as well, with Cocoa passed out purring in her lap. It took me a few seconds for the realization to wash over me, but when it did, my blood turned ice cold.

“How long has Cocoa been sleeping on your lap?” I asked with trepidation. Dawn smiled and scratched under Cocoa’s chin, purring in pure bliss.

“This lazy girl’s been on my lap all evening,” sighed Dawn. “I’ve been trying to get her to leave for the last fifteen minutes, but she doesn’t want to go.”

My face drained in color, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“What? You can’t just say nothing if you’re acting like that,” she demanded, before I could slip away. With some slight hesitation, I recounted what happened only a few minutes before, and Dawn didn’t exactly take the news well. “That’s it; I’m not going through the living room alone at night.”

I didn’t blame her.

Mom and dad never had an inkling about what went on with the cedar chest. They rolled their eyes at our stories, asking if it was the doll situation all over again. It’s not that they were stupid or blind of our problem, like stereotypical parents you’d see on TV. The chest possessed some kind of knowledge, and stopped its antics whenever they were in the vicinity. The bumps ceased, and the burnt hair odor cleared away. Yet the moment they left the house, the chest made its presence known once again. Even our friends felt uneasy around the chest when they’d come over. One of my friends even described the box as “nasty”, and gagged when he lifted the lid and sniffed inside.

At this point, we both began having strange dreams—no, more like vivid nightmares—that made us dread sleep and stole our rest. The dreams always repeated, and the two of us would recount them over breakfast out of earshot of our mother. In my dreams, I’d hold onto a long rectangular Jack-in-the-box on the shape of the cedar chest; winding the crank as some strange, unfamiliar melody played in an out of tune, metallic tone. I’d wind the crank for what seemed like hours, feeling the pressure build I felt the sides expand until I thought it would break. I’d wake up every time mere moments before the box exploded, stomach tightened in anticipation for the oncoming blast.

 Dawn dreamt of digging through the cedar chest for a quilt to sleep with for the night. She always chose one embroidered with stars and unfamiliar symbols that reminded her of webdings. When Dawn would spread it over her bed and try sleeping, she’d bump her foot into another foot with long, jagged toenails, or turn over onto a wriggling arm. Every time she’d jump out of bed and tear off the covers off, only to discover the bed completely empty. As soon as she’d climb back into bed they’d start right where they left off, never giving her a moment’s rest. The limbs would never attack; just continually make their presence known, causing Dawn to toss and turn restlessly all night. Just before morning, she’d feel a leathery hand with twisted nails grip her wrist like a vice and yank her forward, snapping her awake to the safety of her room.

The exhaustion from our lack of sleep and paranoia took its toll on us in the passing weeks it stayed in our living room. Our grades took a turn for the worse, which I couldn’t afford as a junior in high school. I looked for any reason to get out of the house, taking extra shifts at my job or spending the night at a friend’s house. I relished the break, as the dreams never bothered me out of the house. Dawn didn’t have a job, considering she was fourteen at the time. Worse, she didn’t have many reliable friends she could count on to stay with. She resorted to barricading herself in her room, only coming out when absolutely necessary. No longer did we sit together every afternoon enjoying cartoons and company. We were becoming strangers living under one roof. Not even a concerned lecture from our parents could change the diverging paths we were taking.

 One early Thursday evening, I came home from a particularly long day of school to grab a change of clothes so I could spend the night at a friend’s house. School was winding down, so I made up an excuse that we were working on an important final project for class. When I pulled into the street that I lived on, I saw something that made my heart sink like a stone. Two squad cars with flashing lights sat outside the front of my house, with my parents talking to a police officer. Panicked, I pulled into the driveway and ran as fast as I could to my parents.

To my relief, right as I asked what happened, I found Dawn sitting in our backyard, talking to two police officers, shaken, but otherwise unharmed. My parents told me that while Dawn was home, she heard someone breaking into the house. She got out as fast as she could and ran to a neighbor’s house where she dialed 911. There had to be more to the story beneath the surface, so I waited until after the officers assured us the house was clear before bugging Dawn with questions.

I found her in her room, once again chatting with her online friends. Cocoa napped on the edge of Dawn’s bed, content that the strangers were out of the house. I tapped on the door and inched inside.

“You alright?” I asked with a sympathetic voice. Now was not the time for teasing from big brother.  The question hung in the air for a brief moment, only the tapping of keys breaking the silence.

“So, now you’re going to check up on me?” snapped Dawn, not even bothering to turn around. “Or are you just going to run away again once you’re sure I’m fine?” I didn’t blame her for being angry with me. I hadn’t been around to check up on her. Clearing my throat, I tried again, but with a new tactic.

“Yeah, sorry about leaving you here,” I apologized as sincerely as I could. “I should’ve been here to protect you, but I haven’t. I promise I won’t leave you here alone again.” My sister typed out a few more sentences before pushing the slide out keyboard tray underneath the computer desk and swiveled around.

“Fine,” she sighed. Dawn wasn’t one to just accept an apology, so I took what I could get. With that out of the way, Dawn filled me in on what happened to her earlier that day.

Dawn arrived home from school in the afternoon with no one else at the house. Dad was usually home at this time, but he had errands to run after work. As Dawn began pulling books out of her backpack, she thought she heard scratching inside the cedar chest. Dawn jumped and almost ran out of the house that moment, but she thought she heard Cocoa meowing from inside the box.

Now, Cocoa constantly trapped herself by climbing in open drawers or closets for her naps; so it didn’t seem out of the ordinary that would’ve let Cocoa jump in the chest and fall asleep on the quilts until she wanted out. As Dawn gripped the lid to the cedar chest, Cocoa meowed again from inside the box. Dawn froze in her steps. That wasn’t Cocoa’s meow, but rather, a human changing their voice in an imitation of a cat’s cry. Dawn booked it out of the house and over to our neighbors without a second glance.

Dawn let out an exasperated sigh, exhausted from her lack of sleep. Apparently, since I had been out of the house, the thumps from inside the cedar chest were loud enough that she could hear them from the second floor. I extended an olive branch to her by offering to sleep in the living room for the night so I could keep an eye on the chest, which she immediately accepted. I could tell she was still mad at me for leaving her alone, but the gesture mended the tension a bit. As I headed downstairs with my blanket and pillow for the night, Dawn stuck her head out of her room and made me promise I’d come up if things got too out of control. I flashed a reassuring smile and told her everything was going to be alright.

We both knew I was lying.

That night was one of the absolute worst nights of my entire life. I spent the first half of the night with my eyes peeled at the lid of the cedar chest, just waiting for the first signs of movement. You know the old adage “a watched pot never boils”? That goes tenfold when you’re tired and need sleep. Eventually, tiredness must’ve won out, as I slipped in and out of consciousness; but, to be honest, I’m not quite sure where the line between dream and reality blurred. I was cognizant that I was lying flat on the couch, yet I couldn’t move a muscle for hours. My eyes, though, remained glued on that stupid chest. Unable to do anything, I’d glance back and forth between the chest and the room. One moment, all appeared as normal, like when I first came down for bed. The next moment, I’d notice the lid cracked open, with boney, wrinkled hands and twisted fingernails curled over the edge. From the blackness of the chest, I’d observe two beady, yellow eyes locked in my direction. The lid of the chest rose and fell, as if the box was alive and breathing. I wanted so desperately to close my eyes, throw the covers over my head and hope it went away, but my body refused to cooperate. The metaphorical crank had begun turning, and I was sure whatever lurked inside the box would pop out at any moment.

Eventually, the sun rose over the horizon, bringing warmth and familiarity to the room that had been my unwelcome prison all night. I suppose I fell asleep again at this point, because the next thing I knew my mother was waking me up for school. Part of me wanted to call in sick, but you couldn’t have paid me to stay home alone with that box. During a rushed breakfast, Dawn grilled me for new information, but I didn’t feel like recounting my ordeal. Before we left for school, I told her that I’d call in sick for work, and made her promise not to enter the house without me. I vowed that today would be the last day we’d ever see that box.

I couldn’t focus on my schoolwork the entire day. Thoughts of that awful cedar chest plagued my mind as I tried preparing for my final exams. My sleep deprived mind played tricks on my senses, as I thought I caught a whiff of burnt hair in chemistry class. I spent almost my entire study hall period roaming the library, trying to find the source of the jack-in-the-box melody piping in from some indiscernible location. Between classes, students ran from one room to the next, the rumbling floor reminding me of the jack-in-the-box in my dream, moments away from popping open and swallowing the floor whole.

My stomach twisted itself into continuous knots as I drove home, going over my plan again and again. Dawn and I would pack some clothes and drive to our grandparents until we forced our parents to get rid of the cedar chest. I knew Dawn wouldn’t be happy about staying at a house without the internet, but there was no way either of us were sleeping another night in that house with the cedar chest waiting to pull its next trick on us.

Parking in the driveway, I found Dawn waiting for me on the front stairs. I explained my plan for staying at our grandparents, and while she wasn’t happy, she agreed it was our best option. Unlocking the front door, we darted straight to our rooms and grabbed a change of spare clothes, toothbrushes, and a few things to keep us occupied while waiting for our parents to give into our ultimatum. The burnt hair smell permeated the whole house, and we opened windows on the second floor just to stop the nausea.

Dawn waited for me in the hallway wearing her backpack, and after hefting my duffle bag up to my shoulder I followed her downstairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, we both noticed Cocoa perched on the corner of the cedar chest, wondering what we were up to as her tail flickered back and forth. Dawn reached over to her cat and snatched the black tabby up from her corner. I stopped in my tracks; the mental image of the jack-in-the-box crank turned another rotation.

“No, you can’t stay on that,” she scolded to Cocoa. “Off you go.”

Cocoa whined and leapt to the ground from Dawn’s arms. As Dawn stepped away from the cedar chest, she stopped and grabbed the side of her jeans. She gave it a quick tug, but the denim wouldn’t budge. The toy crank turned in my mind once again, ever so closer to reaching its crescendo.

“Dawn-,” I warned, urging her away from the chest.

“My leg’s stuck,” grumbled Dawn, giving her jeans another useless tug.

The whole scene played out in slow motion. Dawn grabbed the lid to the cedar chest and lifted it, freeing the side of her jeans from the splinter. The crank twists one last time, and I snap out of my trance right as the lid of the cedar chest flies open. A figure shrouded in grey leapt up from the chest straight from a nightmare and wrapped her arms around my sister as if embracing her in a tight hug. I dove towards Dawn with arms outstretched as the dusty, ragged figured dropped down, trying to pull my sister into the chest. Everything moved in a blur, the figure pulling with a hoarse laugh wheezing through the few teeth she had left, Dawn screaming, flailing her arms in the air helplessly, and me, grabbing hold of the handle on my sister’s backpack, pulling as hard as I could. As I held on, I felt Dawn’s bag coming loose from her back. I adjusted my hold and wrapped my arms around Dawn’s midsection, pulling with all of my might.

By now, Dawn had her upper body over the side of the chest, sinking into the quilts like a kind of fabric quicksand. The volume of my sister’s screams lessened, dampened by the encompassing blankets, but she only thrashed more. As I pulled, I heard the woman’s laughter deepening as she pulled my sister harder. The woman reached out with her other hand and raked her long, clawed fingernails across the top of my upper right arm and parts of Dawn’s exposed upper back and neck. I clenched my teeth in pain, but still held Dawn with all of my might. The figure and I were playing a twisted form of tug o’ war, with my sister as both the figurative rope and prize.

 I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let go, and if this creature pulled Dawn in, I’d allow myself to fall in as well. No way did I want my sister alone with this hideous abomination. Just the thought of my sister trapped with this creature made my blood boil, and a renewed strength and determination coursed through my veins. I lowered my weight towards the floor and pulled as hard as I could, attempting to free my sister and my arms from the pulling fabric. Inch-by-inch I felt the figure’s grip slip, and the feeling only energized my efforts as I tugged harder. Dawn, too, fought back, digging her feet into the hardwood floor and gripping the side of the cedar chest, trying desperately to pull herself out. With one last great effort, Dawn and I worked together as a team, and with tears in our eyes and cramping muscles we fell back onto the floor, free from the figure’s grasp.

For a moment we both laid sprawled out on the floor, chests heaving and sobs stuck in our throats. Slowly, we stood from the floor, blood trickling from our cuts, and knees trembling from shock. Keeping a cautious distance, we both looked over the edge of the cedar chest with trepidation. There, in the middle of the ruffled quilts, appeared the woman sinking into the linen around her as if someone was lowering her down. I didn’t get a good look at her during the fight, but now I could see her for who she was. Her face and skin were ashen and pocked with liver spots and splotches of hair. The eyes were as fierce and piercing as I had remembered from earlier that morning, yellow and thin, like cat’s eyes when exposed to full sunlight. She had wild, tarnished silver hair that draped over the tops of the quilts like the appendages of a giant octopus lurking in the depths of the ocean. The woman’s few remaining teeth were stained brown and bits of black. By far the most terrifying feature were her long, winding fingernails with sharpened edges, stained red from our blood. I don’t remember if she wore clothes, because I couldn’t tell where her skin ended and the cream colored quilts began, not to mention all of that straggly hair.

At first glance, she looked frail and weak with her emaciated arms, but all this was simply a façade, hiding a strength that could overpower any unsuspecting investigators like a trap door spider. Had either of us been alone, I have no doubt she would’ve snared us into her domain. We stood in silence as she sank into the quilts, unable and unwilling to look away. The woman glared at us with seething hatred, like a hunter whose prey slipped right from under their nose moments from the kill. She barred her teeth and uttered a low-pitched hiss as she sank deep beneath the quilts until the last wisps of hair slipped into the cracks and out of sight. I stepped to the side of the chest, and then, using my fingertips, nudged the lid until gravity took over and slammed it shut. The jack-in-the-box was now closed, with the hideous clown trapped inside once again.

Regaining my composure, I took my sister by the shoulder and led her away from the box. She kept silent, until we sat in the patio of our backyard where she broke down and wept. I said nothing and just let her cry, unable to do much else.

 “I saw the other side,” she squeaked as she quieted down. “I- I could’ve become one of them!”

“One of who?” I asked, but she never answered.

About an hour later, our parents arrived home, finding us sitting in the backyard waiting for them. We gave them our ultimatum, stating that we wouldn’t go back inside until they got rid of the box. When they protested, we showed them our cuts, which finally got their attention. Dad’s friend Jack drove up to the house a short while later and the two of them carried the empty chest through the front door. I didn’t know why at the time, but dad looked spooked about the whole thing. He was relieved when the chest was out of the house and on the front lawn. Dawn and I reentered the house, where mom was bagging the quilts to store in my grandparent’s attic. She was disappointed about getting rid of the chest, but one look on our faces told her she had made the right decision.

As dad talked on the phone with the antique store about their return policy, Jack suddenly hailed us to the living room window in a hurry. We watched as a man and his teenage son loaded the chest onto the bed of their pickup truck before speeding off smiling, wheels screeching as they burned rubber. Mom looked pretty upset about losing the money she had invested in it, but dad looked worried as he muttered a curse word under his breath.

That night, I sat outside with my dad, and he asked me to recount every event that happened since the chest had been brought to the house. He sat in silence as I told him every event that came to memory. Unlike before, it seemed like he believed my story, never giving me a skeptical or questioning look. Once I finished, I asked him why he wanted to know, and it was his turn to explain.

After my sister and I refused to go back inside, my mother and father went in and emptied the quilts out of the cedar chest. As my mother searched the house for bags to store them in, my dad noticed that the floor of the chest appeared higher than the actual bottom of the box. He tapped the bottom and heard a hollow sound reverberating through the wood. Shifting the slab of wood around, he felt the board slide to one side, allowing someone to slip their fingers between the side wall of the chest and lift the board up, revealing a secret compartment.

Out of curiosity, he pulled up on the board to look inside the hidden compartment. He wished he hadn’t. Inside, he found a large circle drawn in what looked like dried blood, with odd symbols and shapes formed inside of it. The whole compartment had ashy dust coating every inch of the bottom, along with assorted fingernails, bits of teeth, and a knot of grey hair with burnt tips scattered about. Now, my dad’s normally a very stoic individual, but the whole scene rattled his nerves. He shut the compartment and the chest lid and immediately washed his hands with hot water for at least a minute.

“Whoever took that chest,” muttered my dad as he gazed out in our backyard, “they have no idea what they’re dealing with.” He paused for another sip of his soda. “But they will.”

It’s been more than a decade since these events transpired. Dawn and I don’t talk about it much. I only told my wife about the experience a year after we were married. Dawn and I still have nightmares about the incident, though they’ve been with less regularity over time. She never told me what she saw on the other side of the chest, and maybe it’s better it stays that way. At least the whole experience brought us closer together, and while we live in different states, we know we can always count on each other.

Still, there are two things that have bothered me since the chest left my parent’s house all those years ago. Every once and awhile, Dawn will send me news articles about events that happen in our town to keep me up-to-date. Since my last year of high school, up until a few weeks ago, there have been eight missing children cases in our small town, all between the ages of three to seventeen. In all instances, the parents and police have no leads as to what could’ve happened to them. It’s as if the children simply vanished out of thin air when the parents weren’t looking. I find this strange for a community as small as ours. I don’t have proof that this is the case, but I know the likely source of these disappearances. My guess is each family came into contact with a beautiful antique cedar chest that they couldn’t live without. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were additional cases reported in the neighborhoods bordering our town, but I haven’t done the research yet.

                The other part that’s bothered me occurred during the last visit to my parent’s house about a month ago. My dad and I were spending some time together, and for some reason the subject of the cedar chest came up in our conversation. He revealed something to me that he neglected to share the night the chest disappeared. While he was on the phone with the antique store, just before the chest was taken, the person on the other line knew exactly which chest he was talking about.

The cedar chest had been part of a bedroom set the antique store bought from an estate sale of a wealthy old widow that had passed away. Apparently this wasn’t the first piece of furniture from the set that someone wanted to return. There was something the antique store owner mentioned in an off-hand remark that disturbed my father, and it’s left me wondering about it ever since.

He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t buy the mirror,” and hung up the phone.