The Cold Plate of Tuna

I’ve always been sensitive to things that others can’t perceive. As a kid, my brother and I would watch translucent silhouettes drift through our parents’ hallway, never interacting, just passing through like bored commuters. As an adult, I’ve had lights flicker and my cat stare at empty corners, but nothing compared to that late January evening in 2011.

I had just moved into a small studio apartment in the industrial district of a city that never really slept, but my neighborhood was dead quiet. My husband was working the night shift, and I was alone with our beagle, Biscuit. The heat was broken, and I hadn’t bothered to fix it yet, so I wore a thick sweater as I stood at the kitchen counter, mixing a can of tuna with mayonnaise. The only sound was the scrape of the fork against the bowl and Biscuit’s occasional snuffle from his bed by the radiator.

Then, it happened. A voice, deep and unmistakably male, spoke directly into my left ear, so close I felt a puff of breath against my skin. It said my full name, the one only my parents used. The fork clattered onto the counter. I spun around, but there was no one. The room was empty. Biscuit hadn’t even lifted his head. The air was still and cold.

I told myself it was a hallucination, a side effect of exhaustion. But then the lights in the kitchen flickered, and the radio, which I had turned off before coming in, blared static for a second before cutting out. My heart hammered. I grabbed Biscuit and called my husband, who laughed and said, ‘Probably a neighbor’s TV leaking through the walls.’ But I knew what I heard.

The next night, I decided to test my sanity. I set a voice recorder on the counter, placed a cold plate of tuna in the fridge, and went to bed. At 3:33 AM, I was jolted awake by the sound of the fridge opening. I crept to the kitchen and found the plate on the counter, the tuna untouched, but the fork sticking upright in the middle like a tiny tombstone. The recorder’s LED was blinking.

When I played the recording, I heard the fork drop, then a low, guttural sigh, and then a man’s voice, clear as day, whispering, ‘You forgot the celery.’ I nearly threw the device across the room. That was when I noticed the small detail: I had never told anyone about my secret ingredient. No one knew I always added a pinch of celery salt to my tuna salad.

I called the landlord the next morning, asking if the building had any history of strange occurrences. The landlord, an old man with a twitch, paused for a long moment and then said, ‘They say the previous tenant left in a hurry. A man who lived alone. He used to make tuna salad every Thursday. One day he just disappeared. They never found him, but his radio was still playing static.’

I moved out a week later, but sometimes, in the dead of winter, when the heat is off and the wind rattles the windows, I still hear that voice in my ear, calling my name. And I can’t help but wonder if the tuna salad recipe was a secret, or if the ghost is just trying to remind me that I was never truly alone.