The Broken Latch

When I moved into the old apartment on the edge of the industrial district, I knew the rent was too good to be true. The caretaker, a wiry man named Mr. Ogden, had shown me the place with a flashlight, claiming the wiring was being redone. The flat was on the fifth floor of a building that had once been a textile mill, now converted into cheap housing. The walls were thick, painted a sickly yellow, and the pipes groaned like they were alive.

My uncle, who owned the building, had let me stay for a few weeks while I finished my thesis. He had a tendency to pop in unannounced, using the place as a rest stop between his travels. I didn’t mind; I was just grateful for a roof.

The first odd thing happened on the very first day. I tried to lock my bedroom door from the inside, and the latch gave way with a snap. The mechanism was shattered, the screws bent outward as if someone had forced it with a crowbar. I dismissed it as a pre-existing flaw, but I asked Mr. Ogden about it when he brought me extra light bulbs. ‘Oh, that old thing? Probably your uncle. He’s a bit rough with doors,’ he said, avoiding my eyes.

The next morning, I found the Indian bathroom door—the one opposite my bedroom, which I never used—also had its lock broken. The bolt was shoved deep into the frame, splintering the wood. Now I was uneasy. The caretaker had mentioned he was heading to his village for a few days, leaving me alone in the building. I tried to phone my uncle, but he didn’t answer. I reasoned it was just wear and tear, but a knot tightened in my stomach.

On the second night, I was working at my laptop, the glow of the screen casting long shadows on the wall. I had just finished a section of my thesis when I heard it: the sound of water splashing violently, as if a tap had been wrenched open full blast. It came from the bathroom opposite my room—the one with the broken lock. I froze, my heart thudding. I had not turned on that tap; I wasn’t even sure it worked. The sound was frantic, like someone was thrashing in the tub. I wanted to check, but my legs wouldn’t move. I sat there, listening to the cacophony, until it abruptly stopped.

The silence that followed was worse. I waited, barely breathing, for any other sound. Minutes passed. Then I heard a slow, deliberate dripping, as if the tap was now barely open, and then a rhythmic creak—like footsteps on the old wooden floor above, but I was on the top floor. The air grew cold, and I could see my breath misting. I grabbed my phone, but it was dead. The power flickered. I decided to leave, but when I reached the door, I found it locked from the inside—the same door I had locked earlier, but with a force that seemed to have come from nowhere.

I was trapped. The only way out was through the bedroom window, but that was a five-story drop. I backed into a corner, my heart pounding. The bathroom door was ajar, and I could see a sliver of darkness within. Then I heard a whisper, not a voice, but a hiss that seemed to form words: ‘You should have left.’

I shut my eyes, praying it was my imagination. When I opened them, the bathroom door was wide open, and the figure of a young woman, her face obscured by wet hair, stood silhouetted in the doorway. She raised a hand, pointing at the broken lock on the floor. ‘He broke it,’ she said, her voice like rustling leaves. ‘He broke the latch to let me out. Now it’s your turn.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. The figure glided toward me, and as she passed under the light, I saw her face—it was my own, but ghostly pale, with eyes black as coal. She reached for my throat, and I felt a cold hand close around it. The world spun, and I found myself on the floor, gasping for air. The figure was gone, and the bathroom tap was running again, but this time it seemed gentle, almost playful.

I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my keys from the bedside table, and rushed to the door. This time, the lock turned easily, and I fled the apartment, running down the stairs without looking back. Outside, the streetlights cast an orange glow, and I collapsed on the curb, trembling.

I later learned from a neighbor that the building had a history. A woman had lived in my apartment decades ago, a woman who had been killed by her husband in a fit of rage. He had broken the locks to get to her, and she had died in that bathroom, her blood staining the grout. They say she still lingers, waiting for the next occupant to break the latch again.

I never went back. I stayed with a friend for a week, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that figure, and the whisper echoed in my mind: ‘You should have left.’ I don’t know how long the new locks will hold, but I have no intention of finding out. Some doors are meant to stay locked, and I’ve learned that the hard way.