I know I suck at RTA furniture assembly, but this time I had hit rock bottom. After two hours of unpacking that new wardrobe and scratching my head, all that I’d achieved was a jumble of plywood panels, nails, screws, hinges and doorknobs. Brilliant!

It was nine PM and I was too tired and downbeat to continue, so I decided to give up and get back at it later. I closed the door of the guest room behind me, and shuffled into the kitchen.

Tomorrow would be another day.

The next morning, I felt rested and reinvigorated enough to give it a fresh go. I opened the door, ready to meet with the awful sight I expected, and…

I faltered and remained petrified.

Somehow everything had been sorted and collected: instead of the shambles, neatly packed heaps of every item. Planks had been put against the wall. The assembly manual lay on the bed, open on page two, as if waiting for me.

I shook my head, blinked twice, almost nipped myself. It was real. Could it be that I had returned later in the evening and cleaned the mess? I had no memory of that, though I could swear I hadn’t drunk a single drop of alcohol, nor taken roofie.

A bit giddy, I walked to the bed, took the brochure and started reading. I facepalmed. It was ridiculously simple. How I could’ve found it so obtuse the day before? The sole explanation was that my tired brain had shut down inexplicably.

I got down to work, panel by panel. After one hour, I had to quit to go out. When I came back in the afternoon, I resumed tinkering, until everything was in place but the two front doors.

That’s where disaster struck again: in trying to attach one of those, hinge after hinge, I tripped over the hammer I’d tossed away, almost fell back and ripped the lower hinge from its socket in the process. Fuck. I was such a klutz. Now the door was ruined with no hope for a fix. I had to return to the store and buy a spare. Wonderful.

Infuriated, I chucked the door onto the bed and left.

I was so distressed I found it hard to fall asleep. My night was haunted with bad dreams. At a point I woke up, certain to have heard muffled noises close to me. But all was silent, so I dismissed the feeling and slept on.

But the next morning, I discovered that the broken panel had been mended. Mended and set in place. Matter of fact, the assembly had been finished during the night and the wardrobe pushed into the corner where I wanted it to be.

This was incomprehensible. How had the whole thing fixed itself? I opened the double door. It was fine. Ready to use, as if by magic. But that was plainly wrong. With butterflies in my stomach, I hung an old coat inside, closed the doors and retreated. Then I went out and tried to forget about it.

But when I came back, my first move was to check on the coat. It was still there, unchanged. I spent the evening pondering on my mental health. I was clearly suffering from delusion. Had to call my GP right away.

I went to bed wondering what I would imagine that night.

I awoke with a start. I wasn’t in my bed. I was standing in the guest room, facing the wardrobe, a hand on the handle. The light had been switched on.

I stood motionless while my brain tried to take stock of the situation. Then I burst into laughter. Of course! It was plain: I was suffering from sleepwalking. All those nights I had come back to the guest room and worked without being aware of it. My subconscious was smarter than my conscious self. I returned to bed smiling and fell back asleep.

In the morning I didn’t even pay attention to the wardrobe. But as I ate my dinner, I couldn’t help wondering. Sleepwalking didn’t explain all. I spent the evening with a vague feeling of dread, and dozed off from exhaustion.

A loud crash rouses me from an unholy dream. I open my eyes. The wardrobe stands in front of me, next to my bed. How did—? Pushed outwards as if by an unseen hand, the doors slowly part. I glance into a dark pit. What is that?— Oh God, nooooo!—