The Keeper of the Third Floor

In the autumn of 1972, I was twenty-two and had just moved to the small coastal town of Port Blaire to work as a live-in assistant for the elderly Mrs. Holloway. Her house was a sprawling Victorian on a bluff overlooking the sea, a place of creaking floors and salt-warped windows. Mrs. Holloway was a former librarian, sharp-witted but frail, and she had a grown son named Elias who visited on weekends. He was a taciturn man, a marine biologist, and he often brought with him a strange, uneasy energy that seemed to linger after he left.

My duties were simple: cook, clean, and keep Mrs. Holloway company. She was a fascinating conversationalist, full of stories about the town’s history, but she never spoke of the third floor. The staircase to it was blocked by a heavy oak door painted shut, and when I asked about it, she would grow quiet and change the subject. It was only a few weeks into my employment that I began to notice the sounds—a rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, coming from behind that door, always at night, always when I was alone in the house.

At first, I dismissed it as the wind or the old house’s settling. But the sounds grew more insistent, and I began to feel a pressure on my chest as I lay in bed, as if something heavy were sitting on me. I would wake gasping for air, my throat raw, and find my bedsheets twisted around my neck. Mrs. Holloway, whenever I mentioned it, would pat my hand and say, ‘It’s just nerves, dear. The sea air can be heavy.’ But her eyes betrayed a fear she couldn’t hide.

One night, unable to sleep, I decided to investigate. I found a crowbar in the basement and pried open the paint-sealed door. Beyond it was a spiral staircase leading up into darkness. The air was thick with the smell of brine and decay. As I climbed, the thumping grew louder, and I felt a palpable presence, something watching me from the shadows. At the top, a single locked door, and behind it, a faint humming.

I broke the lock with a few heavy blows and pushed the door open. The room was vast, filled with shelves of dusty jars, each containing a strange, iridescent fluid. In the center, on a stone pedestal, lay a large, pulsating organ, slick with sea foam, connected by thick, black veins to the ceiling. It beat with a steady rhythm, and as I watched, it seemed to sense me, and the veins began to writhe. A voice, not in my ears but in my mind, said, ‘You should not have come.’

I fled, slamming the door behind me, and ran down the stairs. The next morning, I confronted Mrs. Holloway. She broke down, confessing that the organ was all that remained of her husband, a sea captain who had been lost at sea decades ago. She had used old folklore to keep his spirit alive, but it had become something else—a creature that fed on the life force of those who lived in the house. ‘It keeps him with me,’ she sobbed, ‘but it takes a toll. It hungers for the living.’

I wanted to leave immediately, but Mrs. Holloway begged me to stay, saying that if I left, the creature would surely kill her. She gave me a small, carved bone whistle and told me to blow it if I ever felt threatened. ‘It was his,’ she said, ‘he used it to calm the sea. It may keep the creature at bay.’ I took it, but I doubted its power.

That night, the thumping was louder than ever, and the pressure on my chest was unbearable. I grasped the whistle and blew it, but no sound came out. The pressure only increased, and I felt something wrap around my throat, cold and slimy. I struggled, my vision dimming, and then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I gasped for air, and in the silence, I heard a faint, gurgling laugh from the third floor.

The next morning, I found Mrs. Holloway dead in her bed, a serene expression on her face, but her body was cold as ice. Elias arrived later that day, his face grim. He didn’t seem surprised. ‘It finally took her,’ he said. ‘It was only a matter of time. She made a deal with it, you know. It kept her alive, but it demanded a sacrifice every few years. I was the one who appeased it, but I couldn’t do it forever.’

He led me to the third floor. The organ was gone, leaving only a dark stain on the stone. ‘It will return,’ he said. ‘It always does. And now, it has no keeper. It will feed on anyone who stays too long.’ I packed my bags and left that day, but as I drove away, I saw in my rearview mirror a dark shape on the third floor window, watching me.

Now, years later, I still feel its presence. The thumping has followed me, a distant echo in the quiet of my apartment. I have the whistle, which I wear around my neck, but I know it’s only a temporary shield. The keeper is gone, and the creature is free. It will find me again, and when it does, I hope I will be ready. But deep down, I know that some things cannot be outrun, and the sea always claims its own.