The Habit of the Last Tenant

I first saw the house on a gray Tuesday, three weeks before my cousin’s wedding. I’d driven from Perth to the outskirts of Ballarat, where my cousin Lena and her fiancé, Theo, had rented a sprawling Victorian from Theo’s absentee uncle. The place was called ‘Wattle Hill’, though the only wattle trees were dying skeletons near the front gate. Theo picked me up from the station, and as we turned onto the gravel drive, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. The house loomed—two stories of peeling paint, a wrap-around veranda choked with ivy, and a turret that seemed to lean like a tired old man. My room was at the end of a long, narrow hallway on the second floor, under the turret. Lena hugged me, said, ‘It’s got character,’ and then she and Theo retreated to the kitchen, where pots clanged and laughter echoed through the floorboards.

That first night, after a dinner of cold chicken and loud argument about seating arrangements, I excused myself and climbed the stairs. The hallway was lit by a single, naked bulb that swung slightly even though there was no draft. My door had a brass knob shaped like a clenched fist. Inside, the room was vast and mostly empty—a single bed, a wardrobe, a dusty writing desk under a window that faced the dead wattle trees. The wallpaper was a faded pattern of roses and thorns, but in one corner, near the ceiling, it had been scratched raw, exposing dark plaster. I lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. I listened to the house settle: creaks, groans, and a faint, rhythmic scratching from inside the walls, like something with long nails trying to get out. I chalked it up to rats and forced my eyes shut.

Three nights before the wedding, I woke at exactly 3:33 AM. The scratching had stopped. In its place, a low hum—a tuneless, vibrating sound that seemed to come from the wardrobe. I sat up, heart hammering. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar. I knew I hadn’t left it open. As I watched, the crack widened, and a hand emerged—pale, thin, with yellowed fingernails caked with something dark. It gripped the edge of the door, and then a woman stepped out. She was tall, dressed in a white nightgown that was stained with rust-colored patches. Her hair hung in matted strings, and her face was partially obscured by shadow, but I saw her eyes—they were pure black, like bottomless wells. She didn’t look at me. Instead, she walked to the window, pressed her palm against the glass, and whispered in a language I didn’t recognize. Then she turned her head, and I swear she smiled, though her lips didn’t move.

I threw the blanket over my head and prayed until dawn. In the morning, I told Lena, but she laughed, said, ‘Probably your imagination. This old house plays tricks.’ Theo, who was quieter, glanced at the corner of the room and said nothing. Over the next days, I tried to avoid the room, but I had to sleep somewhere. I left the light on. I locked the wardrobe. But every night, at 3:33, she came. She never approached the bed; she just stood by the window, humming, and sometimes she would leave faint marks on the glass—symbols I didn’t recognize. I started sleeping with a crucifix under my pillow, but I felt it grow cold on the second night.

The day before the wedding, I found the truth. I was exploring the attic, looking for old photographs for the slideshow, when I stumbled upon a wooden trunk. Inside were letters, yellowed with age, and a photograph of a woman who looked exactly like my apparition. Her name was Elsie. According to a journal, she had been the housekeeper for the original family. She had died in my room in 1912, of a ‘wasting illness’. But the last page of the journal had a strange entry: ‘She never leaves. She waits for the unborn.’ Chills ran down my spine. I showed the journal to Theo. He turned pale and admitted he’d heard stories from his uncle about a resident ghost, but he’d never believed. ‘She’s waiting for a birth,’ he whispered. ‘They say she died trying to save her baby from a fire, but the baby died too, and she’s been searching ever since.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wedding was at noon the next day. At 3:33, I was wide awake, sitting in the chair by the desk. Elsie emerged from the wardrobe, but this time she glided toward me. Her mouth opened, and a voice like dry leaves scraped out: ‘You carry it.’ I was frozen. ‘You carry the child.’ And she pointed at my stomach. I wasn’t pregnant—I had never even—but my hand instinctively went to my belly, and I felt a faint warmth, a flutter. Elsie’s black eyes bore into me. ‘Give it to me,’ she said. ‘Let me take it to the light.’ I screamed, and she vanished as the door burst open. Theo and Lena rushed in, found me sobbing, clutching my abdomen.

The wedding was postponed. I couldn’t explain the sensation, but a week later, in a hospital in Melbourne, a scan showed nothing unusual, but the doctor said, ‘There’s an inexplicable mass, but it’s benign. It’ll dissolve on its own.’ I left at dawn, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Elsie had followed me. Back in Perth, I started waking at 3:33. In my apartment, I would see her reflection in windows, her shape under doorways. Last week, I received a letter from Theo. The house had been sold. In the attic, they found a christening gown, yellowed, with the name ‘Elsie’ embroidered inside. And in my own closet, one morning, I found the same gown—clean, white, and smelling of smoke. I haven’t slept since. I’m writing this in a motel, with all the lights on. But just now, I heard a humming from the bathroom. And I know, when I look in the mirror, I’ll see her face behind mine, waiting for me to give her what she never had. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. She’s patient. She knows my name.