11 Oct My Closet is Trying to Kill Me

Look, I’m not saying my closet is haunted. I’m just saying… there’s no logical explanation for what’s been happening.

It started the week we moved into the new house. Kelvin and I found this place during one of those spontaneous “we need a bigger place before we go insane” moments, and it felt perfect. Nice neighborhood. Big yard. Enough space to contain our three feral sons—Isaiah, Miles, and Cody—who treat drywall like it’s their personal canvas. And a master bedroom with the walk-in closet of my dreams.

When I saw it, I had visions. Organized bliss. Clothes arranged by season, color-coded. Kelvin’s old high school jerseys hung neatly, my dresses breathing on hangers instead of suffocating in bins. This was going to be my thing. A clean, organized closet—a sanctuary of adulting.

Kelvin, of course, couldn’t care less about hangers. “Hangers are just a way to procrastinate folding,” he muttered the first time I tried organizing his stuff. And don’t even get me started on the kids. I could hang their clothes like a superhero, and they’d still dump everything into a ‘clean-ish’ pile on their bedroom floors within 24 hours.

“Why do we have hangers at all, Mom?” Isaiah asked once. “Folding is easier.”

“Because this family needs structure,” I said.

But nobody in this house understands structure. So, fine. The closet was going to be mine alone. The one corner of the universe I could control. Or so I thought.

* * * * *

It started small. The first day we moved in, I hung up all my clothes—so proud of myself—and went to bed feeling accomplished. Only, when I walked into the closet the next morning, the shelves had collapsed. Just—bam. Every single rod pulled clean out of the drywall. Dresses, sweaters, shoes—all of it crumpled in an angry heap on the floor.

“Babe,” Kelvin said, poking his head around the doorframe as I cursed under my breath, “you have too much stuff. You know these prefab racks can’t handle all that.”

“They’re supposed to,” I grumbled.

So we spent an entire Saturday patching the drywall, buying new racks, and reinstalling everything. I didn’t let it deter me.

“See?” I said as I hammered the final bracket in place. “Good as new.”

I shouldn’t have said that. The closet heard me. I swear, it heard.

* * * * *

The next collapse happened a week later. This time, it wasn’t a slow buckle. It was an explosion. Kelvin was sitting on the bed, scrolling his phone, when the crash came from the closet—like the whole room had tried to eat itself. We rushed over and found shelves dangling from their brackets, my clothes in another tragic heap on the ground. This time, the rod had actually punched a hole through the drywall.

I stood there, numb, trying to comprehend how physics had betrayed me.

“Maybe if you kept, like, ten percent of your wardrobe?” Kelvin suggested helpfully.

I shot him a look that could melt tungsten.

“This is sabotage,” I whispered.

Kelvin chuckled. “Sabotage by drywall?”

“No,” I muttered darkly, “by the closet.”

Kelvin didn’t get it. He thought I was being dramatic. He didn’t see the gleam of malevolence hiding behind the louvered doors. But I knew. Something was off about that closet. It didn’t just dislike my clothes—it hated them. And, by association, it hated me.

* * * * *

We kept patching holes and installing new shelves. It became a routine—like the world’s least exciting home improvement show. And every time it happened, Kelvin became more exasperated.

“Natalia,” he said, one afternoon while spackling yet another drywall crater, “you’re obsessed. Just fold your clothes like a normal person.”

“It’s not about the clothes,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s the principle. The closet is supposed to work, damn it.”

Kelvin threw his hands up. “You’re giving this closet way too much power.”

He had no idea.

Things got worse. It started with little incidents—small, sneaky things designed to undermine my sanity. A hanger would snap in my hand for no reason. The door would jam, refusing to open, until I was nearly late for work. At one point, I found my favorite pair of boots inside a laundry basket I was sure I hadn’t touched.

Then it got violent.

* * * * *

The first real attack happened on a rainy Thursday night. I was home alone with the kids—Kelvin was working late—when I decided to reorganize the closet. Again. I had just finished hanging up my winter coats when the entire rod catapulted off the wall and slammed into my shoulder.

It hurt like hell. I staggered backward, clutching my arm, while the boys stared at me from the hallway.

“Mom’s wrestling the closet again,” Miles whispered.

“Do you need help?” Isaiah asked, not moving a muscle.

“No,” I hissed. “I’ve got it.”

But as I picked up the rod, I could feel it. That closet wanted me dead.

The next attempt was even worse. A week later, I was crouching inside, trying to screw a loose bracket back into the wall, when the door slammed shut—on its own—and hit me square in the temple. The impact knocked me off balance, and for a second, I thought I might pass out.

When I told Kelvin about it later, he gave me that look. The one that says, “You’re overreacting, but I’m too scared to say it.”

“It was probably the wind,” he said.

“There’s no wind in a closet, Kelvin!”

I could tell he didn’t believe me. But I knew. The closet was trying to kill me, and no amount of rationalization could convince me otherwise.

* * * * *

The breaking point came on a Sunday morning. Kelvin had taken the boys out, leaving me with a few blessed hours of peace. Naturally, I decided to tackle the closet again—because, clearly, I have a death wish.

I had just finished hanging everything up perfectly—racks secured, hangers aligned, clothes separated by season—when I heard it. A creaking sound. The kind of sound wood makes right before it decides to betray you.

I turned just in time to see the entire upper shelf give way.

It happened in slow motion, like a scene from a disaster movie. The rod ripped out of the wall with a sickening crunch, and a cascade of sweaters and dresses came crashing down. I tried to dodge it, but the avalanche of fabric engulfed me, knocking me flat on my back.

For a second, I just lay there, gasping for breath under fifty pounds of aggressively folded sweatshirts.

“Really?” I muttered, staring at the ceiling. “This is how I die?”

Kelvin found me like that an hour later. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly trying not to laugh.

“What happened, Natalia?” he asked, pulling me out from beneath the rubble.

“The closest and I had a mild argument,” I replied sarcastically, savoring the first full breath I’d managed in what felt like forever.

“And… the closet won?” he said, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” I warned him, as I wriggled free of the fabric tomb.

* * * * *

After that, I refused to go near the closet. I started leaving my clothes in baskets and folding them, just to avoid another incident. But the closet wasn’t satisfied. It wanted blood.

The last straw came a few days later. I was brushing my teeth, minding my own business, when I heard a loud snap from the bedroom. I walked in just in time to see the closet door fling itself open and a rogue hanger shoot out—like a spear—narrowly missing my carotid artery.

I stood there, toothbrush in hand, shocked, but not surprised.

“That’s it,” I whispered. “You want a fight? You’ve got one.”

* * * * *

Kelvin thought I was crazy when I told him we needed to call an exorcist.

“It’s a closet, Natalia,” he said. “Just take the doors off and be done with it.”

But I know the truth. This closet isn’t just bad carpentry. It’s evil. And it’s personal.

For now, I’ve surrendered. My clothes are folded. The closet remains empty—waiting.

But one day, I’ll hang something up again. And when I do, I’ll be ready.

Because the next time this closet tries to kill me, it’s coming with me.

* * * * * *

After the hanger incident, Kelvin still didn’t take me seriously. “You’re being dramatic,” he said, in that tone husbands use when dealing with things they think aren’t a big deal but totally are. “It’s just a closet.”

“Just a closet?!” I repeated, my voice climbing into banshee territory. “Kelvin, it tried to impale me with a hanger! That’s attempted murder!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many times do I have to tell you? If we just fold things—”

“I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!” I snapped.

He gave me the look. The “fine, whatever” look that means he’s given up engaging, and somehow I’m still the crazy one. Meanwhile, my enemy crouched in the corner of our bedroom, lurking silently behind those bi-fold doors. I could feel its smugness.

The worst part? I could tell this whole closet debacle was driving a wedge between Kelvin and me. Not that our marriage was falling apart or anything—no, no. We weren’t there… yet. But if a divorce attorney ever asked why we split, I’d have to say, “Well, you see, the closet tried to assassinate me, and my husband sided with the drywall.”

Marriage is hard, people.

* * * * * *

As if dealing with the closet’s vendetta wasn’t enough, the kids didn’t make things easier. Miles, my middle son, was the first to catch on that the closet was a point of tension between Mom and Dad—and boy, did he run with it.

“Mom thinks the closet’s alive,” he told Isaiah and Cody at dinner. “Like in that movie with the killer tires.”

“That’s a tire,” I muttered. “And the movie is called Rubber.”

Isaiah, the eldest, nodded sagely. “Maybe the closet has a spirit attached to it. You know, from one of those creepy furniture stores.”

Cody, bless his tiny heart, piped up with, “Does the closet eat people?”

“No,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, mirroring Kelvin without realizing it. “Not yet.”

This, of course, only inspired them to make closet-themed jump scares around the house. Every five minutes, someone would leap out from behind a door shouting, “I’M THE CLOSET!” Cody even drew a picture of me getting squashed by a shelf and proudly taped it to the fridge. It was titled Mom vs. Closet: The Final Battle.

Hilarious.

* * * * * *

If I were a rational person, I’d seek professional help. But how do you explain to a therapist that your closet has been trying to murder you without sounding like a nutcase?

“Hi, Dr. Perkins, it’s me, Natalia. You know, same old, same old. The anxiety’s fine, kids are thriving. Oh, except the closet in my room is homicidal.”

Yeah. That’s a fast track to getting 5150’d.

Kelvin, for the record, suggested therapy. “You need to talk this out with someone who isn’t married to you,” he said one evening.

“I’m not crazy,” I told him, as calmly as a woman could while swearing vengeance on inanimate objects.

* * * * * *

A few days later, it happened again. I was innocently walking into the closet to grab a clean shirt when—WHAM! The top shelf gave way, sending a basket full of mismatched socks crashing onto my head. I stumbled backward, fell on my ass, and lay there, buried in laundry and self-loathing.

Kelvin found me—again—on the floor, tangled in t-shirts, underwear, and existential despair.

“Did you ever think,” he asked, dragging me to my feet, “that maybe the closet isn’t trying to kill you? Maybe you just have too much stuff?”

“That’s victim blaming, Kelvin.”

He sighed the kind of sigh that men reserve for situations they know they won’t win.

* * * * * *

By now, I was desperate. If I didn’t take action, this closet would succeed in wiping me off the face of the earth, and Kelvin would be left explaining my death to the police with “She really liked sweaters.”

I considered hiring a handyman, but what was I supposed to say? “Hi, could you install ghost-proof racks in my closet?” I could already imagine the way he would describe me to his fellow contractors: “Nice lady, but maybe cursed? Would not recommend.”

So, I did what any sane person would do: I Googled “closet exorcisms.” Spoiler: There aren’t many. I found some dubious websites suggesting sage bundles and chanting, but that felt too Gwyneth Paltrow for me.

Instead, I decided to confront the closet head-on.

Kelvin, of course, kept acting like I was the problem. One day, after another shelf gave out and I spent two hours cleaning up the aftermath, he walked in and said, in that way only husbands do:

“Maybe if you’d just fold your clothes, this wouldn’t happen.”

That’s when I saw red.

“You think this is about folding clothes?!” I hissed.

He gave me that infuriating shrug—the one where he doesn’t even say anything, but the implication is this is all your fault. And before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed a hanger off the floor, snapped it open, and lunged at him.

Kelvin’s eyes widened as I tried to loop the cheap plastic hanger around his neck.

“Are you—ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” he gasped, backpedaling toward the bed.

“Yes, I. Am. Dead! Serious!” I grunted, fighting to keep the hanger from slipping from my hand. “If the closet is going to kill me, I’m taking you with me!”

We wrestled like two idiots in a low-budget wrestling match—me determined to make a point, Kelvin flailing in disbelief, and the hanger bending in ways no hanger should, like the lamest Clue weapon ever.

“You can’t choke me with a hanger!” he shouted, clutching at the flimsy plastic. “This is like that scene from Amityville, but you replaced the murderous dad with Martha Stewart!” A

“The only reason you’re still alive is because it was made in China!” I shouted back, panting with exertion.

The hanger gave an audible crack and snapped clean in two. I stood there, holding the useless halves in each hand, gasping for breath, while Kelvin lay sprawled across the bed, glaring at me like I’d lost my mind.

We both stared at the broken pieces in silence.

“Damn it, I really wanted you dead,” I muttered, tossing the fragments onto the nightstand. “Frickin’ communist garbage.”

Kelvin sat up, smoothing his ruffled hair. “You need help,” he said, deadpan.

“No,” I replied, still catching my breath. “What I need are American-made hangers.”

* * * * * *

Since that incident, we’ve both agreed to a truce. I’ve stopped trying to strangle my husband with shoddy, foreign-made products, and he’s stopped mentioning folding.

The closet? Oh, it’s still there. Watching. Waiting.

I’ve avoided it for the past two weeks. My clothes are folded—well, most of them. The closet seems satisfied. For now.

But one day, I know I’ll have to hang something again. And when I do? I’ll be ready.

Next time, I’ll buy metal hangers. Heavy-duty. American steel.

Because if the closet’s coming for me, I’m taking everyone down with it.