The Frequency of Unseen Guests

After a long afternoon of lectures on magnetic resonance, I trudged back to my compact apartment in the converted attic of a sprawling Victorian house. The room was a maze of sloped ceilings and exposed beams, and the landlord had warned me about strange drafts, but rent was cheap. I tossed my backpack onto the worn armchair and collapsed onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. My eyes felt heavy, my limbs like lead, but as soon as I closed them, a low hum filled the space, as if the attic itself had come alive.

At first, it was a distant murmur, like a radio tuned to static with faint voices buried beneath. I dismissed it as the old building settling. But the murmur grew, coalescing into distinct conversations. There were laughter, snippets of arguments, a child’s giggle, and the rhythmic clack of heels on a hard floor. I opened my eyes, expecting to see my roommate, Lena, but the room was empty. The sounds persisted even with my eyes open, though they seemed to come from a few feet away, near the foot of my bed. My breath caught. This was not imagination.

I pressed my palms against my ears, but the sounds only sharpened. A woman’s voice said, ‘I’ve told you, I have nothing to do with it,’ followed by the sound of footsteps retreating. My heart pounded. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, scanning the corners, the shadows, anything. The attic’s single window was frosted, letting in a pale gray light. The air felt thick, almost syrupy. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The voices stopped abruptly, as if they had just noticed me.

Silence hung for a beat, then a whisper tickled my right ear: ‘Come with me.’ A cold pressure wrapped around my ankle, then my waist, as if an invisible hand was tugging. I felt a sensation of being lifted, my body becoming weightless, my spirit peeling away from my flesh. I tried to scream, but my throat was paralyzed. I thrashed with my mind, focusing on the physical world, on the sensation of the sheets beneath me, on the memory of my morning coffee. I wrenched my eyes open, gasping, drenched in sweat.

Sitting up, I saw that the room had changed. The walls, once white, were now stained with dark rust-colored patches that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The ceiling, normally a high cathedral of wood, now echoed with a low, rhythmic thumping, as if something massive was walking above. My phone lay on the nightstand, screen lit, but the time was wrong: 3:07 AM, yet I had only been out for maybe fifteen minutes. When I tried to call Lena, the line crackled with whispers.

I had to leave. I grabbed my keys and slipped on my shoes, but when I reached the door, the handle was freezing cold, and the wood was warped, as if it had been wet. I pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic rising, I pounded on the door, crying for help. Then the voices returned, all talking over each other, but one cutting through: ‘You can hear us. You are supposed to let us out.’

I stumbled back, knocking over a stack of old books that had been left by previous tenants. A photograph fell to the floor, face down. I turned it over: a group of people, circa 1920, dressed in old-fashioned clothing, standing in this very room, but the walls were different, covered with tapestries. In the background, a strange symbol was etched onto the main beam. Underneath, an inscription: ‘The ones who listen shall carry our whispers into the new world.’

I looked up at the beam where I had hung a coat hook. There it was, the symbol, carved deep into the wood, glowing faintly. The voices grew to a crescendo, and I felt something cold wrap around my chest, squeezing. My sight blurred, and I saw a procession of figures, translucent, carrying a coffin. They walked through the wall, and the last one, a woman in high heels, turned to me and said, ‘You are the first to hear us in a hundred years. We will not be forgotten.’

Then, everything went black. I woke on the floor, the room back to normal, sunlight streaming through the window. I was shivering, my jaw aching from clenching. My phone showed it was 7:02 PM, a full two hours after I had lain down. I scrambled to the door; it opened easily now. I never slept in that apartment again, moving out the next week. But the voices followed. They are always there, just beneath the hum of fluorescent lights or the rustle of leaves, waiting for me to close my eyes. And every night, the woman in heels stands at the foot of my bed, whispering, ‘Come with me, you are ours now.’