She Was Only Eight, But She Guarded That Old Cabinet Like Her Life Depended on It. Her Mother Thought It Was Just a Game… Until She Opened the Door.

For weeks, little Lia wouldn’t let anyone open her aparador — not even her mother. She would sit in front of it cross-legged every evening, guarding it like a treasure. No one knew why. Until one rainy Thursday, her mother decided she had to look inside… and everything changed.

Lia was eight years old, with wild curls and a mind full of wonder. But over the last month, the questions had stopped. She had grown unusually quiet — still going to school, doing her homework, and smiling when asked — but something inside her had dimmed. Her mother, Aling Grace, noticed the shift immediately. But whenever she asked what was wrong, Lia would only shake her head and whisper, “Ayos lang po ako.”

The only thing out of the ordinary… was the aparador.

It was an old, creaky piece of furniture, chipped at the corners and smelling faintly of mothballs and old wood. Aling Grace had considered replacing it, but Lia had begged her not to. “Gusto ko po ‘to,” she had said when they moved into their new home in San Mateo two months ago. So, the aparador stayed.

Now, it seemed like more than just furniture. It had become Lia’s secret — one she protected fiercely. Every morning before school, she would gently touch the aparador’s door before leaving. Every night, she would sit in front of it on the wooden floor with a kumot and read from her storybooks — always in a whisper, as though the cabinet was too shy to be heard by others.

At first, Aling Grace thought it was adorable — just a quirky imagination at work. Maybe Lia was pretending there was a hidden world inside, like a local version of Narnia. But after a while, the behavior began to worry her. Especially since Lia had stopped letting her open it — even for cleaning.

“Anong meron d’yan, anak?” Grace had asked one night while tucking her in.

Lia paused. “Hindi naman po masama,” she replied softly. “Pero akin lang po ito.”

Grace didn’t push. Everyone deserves a bit of privacy — even kids. But as the days went on, Lia’s light seemed to fade. She stopped playing with Bantay, the neighbor’s friendly askal she once adored. She skipped her kulintang lessons and barely touched her favorite champorado in the mornings. The spark in her eyes? Gone.

Then came that rainy Thursday in August.

Grace had come home early from the clinic after a tiring shift. The skies were gray, and raindrops trickled down the rusty tin roof. She had hoped to relax with her daughter. But Lia wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. Of course, she was in her room — guarding the aparador.

Grace knocked gently. “Lia, anak?”

No answer.

“Pwede ba akong pumasok?”

A whisper: “Sige po.”

When Grace entered, Lia was sitting cross-legged in front of the cabinet, hugging a ragged stuffed rabbit — Bunso — close to her chest. The room smelled of old wood and dried sampaguita. Outside, the rain tapped against the capiz windowpanes like a soft warning.

Grace sat on the edge of the bed. “Anak… kausapin mo naman ako. Please.”

Lia squeezed the rabbit tighter. “Ayoko po muna.”

Grace’s voice stayed steady. “Alam kong may bumabagabag sa iyo. Matagal na kitang pinababayaan — pero ngayon, natatakot na ako. Hindi ka na ikaw. Kailangan kong maintindihan kung bakit.”

Lia looked away. Her eyes were swollen and glassy, like she had cried quietly before.

Grace’s eyes drifted to the aparador.

“Tungkol ba diyan?”

Silence.

Grace stood slowly and stepped toward it. Her hand hovered just over the old bronze handle, its patina darkened by age and time.

Suddenly— “Wag po!” Lia cried out, standing up so fast the rabbit dropped to the floor. “Wag po, please! Huwag po ninyong buksan!”

Part 2: The Cabinet and the Whisper in the Night

Aling Grace froze, her hand hovering above the cabinet handle. Her heart pounded in her chest. Lia was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Why, anak? Why don’t you want me to open it?” Grace asked, voice trembling.

Lia shook her head frantically, stepping back as if opening the cabinet would unleash something terrifying. “She’s in there, Mama…”

Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Lia lowered her voice to a whisper. “The little girl. She cries every night…”

Grace’s heart sank like a stone.

“Anak, what do you mean? Is someone inside the cabinet?”

Lia nodded slowly. “But she’s not… normal, Mama. She’s like… a ghost.”

The room suddenly felt colder. A gust of wind crept through the slightly open window, making the lace curtains flutter gently. Grace felt goosebumps all over her arms.

That night, Grace couldn’t sleep. She stayed in bed beside her daughter, eyes fixed on the aparador.

And then, exactly at 3 a.m., she heard it.

A sob. Faint. Painful. Like the cry of a child… coming from inside the cabinet.

Part 3: The Old Photograph and the Forgotten Story

The next morning, Aling Grace decided she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

After Lia left for school, she took a deep breath and opened the aparador.

Nothing seemed unusual — just clothes, a few old storybooks, and a small wooden box tucked in the corner she didn’t recognize.

She opened the box.

Inside was a faded black-and-white photo of a young girl, about 7 years old, standing in front of their house — the same house in San Mateo. Her face was sweet… and oddly familiar. Below the photo, written in fading ink:

“Maria Elena, 1974 – our beloved youngest.”

Grace’s spine tingled.

She rushed downstairs and dug through the house’s old papers. Eventually, she found a yellowed news clipping:
“Young Girl Disappears — Maria Elena, 7, vanished without a trace in San Mateo, 1974.”

This house… had once belonged to her.

Part 4: The Rainy Night and the Hand in the Dark

That evening, Grace held Lia close. She finally understood — something had been trapped for years.

“Anak, do you want to help her?” Grace asked gently.

Lia nodded. “She needs help. She said she can’t get out.”

They placed Maria Elena’s photo on the small altar in the bedroom. Grace lit three white candles. She whispered a prayer for peace.

Wind howled outside. Thunder echoed across the rooftops. The whole house seemed to tremble.

Then, from the aparador, the door opened on its own.

A gust of icy wind rushed out. Lia clung to her mother. Inside the cabinet, in the dim light, they saw a faint shape — a little girl with sorrowful eyes, reaching out as if pleading for help.

Grace’s voice cracked. “Maria Elena… you can go now. You’re not alone anymore.”

A soft glow surrounded the figure. The girl nodded… and slowly faded into the air, like mist under candlelight.

The aparador closed gently by itself.

From that night on, Lia no longer guarded the cabinet. She started eating champorado again, played with Bantay the dog, and laughter returned to the old home in San Mateo.

But every time Grace passed the aparador, she would lightly run her hand across its handle — a quiet gesture of farewell to a soul once forgotten… now finally at peace