The Coil of Ash

My name is Marta, and I have lived in the same apartment for seven years. It’s a modest place on the third floor of a pre-war building, with high ceilings and windows that rattle when the wind picks up. I moved in after my grandmother passed away; she was the one who had lived here her whole life, and the family kept the apartment in her name. I thought it would be a way to stay close to her memory, to feel her presence in the walls that had held her for so long. But what I feel in these walls is not my grandmother.

For months, it was just a feeling of being watched, a prickling on the back of my neck whenever I was alone. I’d turn around, expecting to see someone, but there was no one. It followed me from room to room, a persistent, silent observer. I told myself it was just the stress of a new job, the loneliness of city life. But the feeling grew, and I started to notice other things. My keys would be moved from the hook by the door to the kitchen counter. The radio would turn on in the middle of the night, tuned to a station that played only static. Small, petty things, but they made my skin crawl.

Then, last winter, I fell ill. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a lingering fatigue that drained me of all energy. The doctors said it was a virus, but it never fully went away. As my body grew weaker, the presence grew stronger. It was as if my illness was a doorway, and it was stepping through. I began to see him out of the corner of my eye—a tall, thin figure standing in the hallway, or in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. He was always in shadow, his face obscured, but I could feel his gaze boring into me. I tried to tell myself it was a trick of the light, but I knew better.

I sought advice from a friend who dabbled in the occult. She gave me a bundle of dried herbs and told me to burn them in every corner of the apartment, to cleanse the space. I did as she said, and for a few days, the presence seemed to recede. But then, it came back with a vengeance. One night, I woke to find all the doors and windows wide open, even though I had locked them before bed. The wind howled through the rooms, and I felt a cold hand press against my cheek. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the storm.

I started researching the building’s history. I found out that a young man had died in this very apartment in the 1970s. His name was Edwin, and he was a recluse, a photographer who rarely left his studio. He died of an overdose, alone, and his body wasn’t found for days. I felt a chill run down my spine. Could it be him? I began to search for more details, digging through old newspapers at the library, and I found a grainy photo of him. He was thin, with dark eyes, and he stared out of the picture with a look of profound sadness.

I don’t know why he’s attached to me. Maybe it’s because I’m alone, isolated, and he feeds on that. Maybe it’s because I’ve been sick, and my energy is weak. But I know now that this is not my grandmother. This is something else, something that has been waiting for years for someone to notice. I’ve tried to reach out, to communicate, to ask him what he wants. I’ve left offerings—black coffee, old film rolls, lit candles. But he only seems to grow more restless.

Last night, I was lying in bed, exhausted, when the presence pressed down on my chest, heavy as stone. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. In the darkness, I saw two pinpricks of light—his eyes, staring into mine. And then I heard a voice, like gravel grinding against glass, say, ‘Finally, you see me.’ I don’t know what to do. I’m scared that my sickness is just the beginning, that he’s using me as a vessel to return. I’m writing this in the hope that someone, anyone, has experience with such a thing. Please, if you have any advice, tell me how to make him go away. I don’t want to end up like Edwin, forgotten and alone.