The Last Cigarette

The summer after my great-uncle Elbert died, I agreed to stay with my great-aunt Mabel in her old farmhouse on the edge of the bog. She had no one else, and the house felt too big for one person. I took the spare room upstairs, which had once belonged to their son who had moved to the city. The first night passed quietly, the only sound being the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant call of a night bird.

On the second day, Mabel went to the quilting shop in town, leaving me alone. She had asked me to water the plants and check on the generator, but mostly I was free to do as I pleased. I decided to explore the den, a room that had been Elbert’s sanctuary, filled with hunting trophies and a heavy oak desk. In the corner sat an old computer, a relic from the early 2000s, still functioning. I booted it up, hoping to find some games, but the desktop was cluttered with folders of old photos and documents. I clicked through them, feeling like an intruder in a life that had ended.

Suddenly, from the hallway, there was a loud crash, like something heavy hitting the floor. I froze, my heart pounding. I called out, ‘Is anyone there?’ but the silence that followed was thick and unnatural. I slowly got up and peered into the hallway. There, scattered across the floor, were my handheld game console and its cartridges, which I had left in my room. They were now lying in a heap, as if thrown. I checked every room, every closet, and even the attic hatch, but found no one. The dog was with Mabel, and the cat was too old to make such noise. A cold chill ran down my spine.

I returned to the computer, trying to shake off the unease. I noticed a file on the desktop titled ‘VOICE_LOG_2007.’ Curious, I opened it. It was a voice recording application, and there was a single, short audio file. I hesitated, then pressed play. A voice crackled through the speakers, but it was not Elbert’s. It was a younger man, and he was whispering, as if afraid of being heard. ‘The ones who leave never really leave. They stay in the shadows, watching. But you can’t see them unless you know where to look.’ The recording ended abruptly. Confused, I looked at the file properties. It was dated December 16, 2007, the day Elbert died.

I felt a presence behind me. The air grew cold, and the room seemed to darken. I turned slowly, expecting to see someone, but there was no one. Yet, I felt a weight on my shoulder, like a hand gently pressing down. I shook it off, chalking it up to stress. I decided to get some fresh air, but as I stood, I noticed the office chair was moving on its own, rotating slowly as if someone had just stood up. I watched in horror as the cursor on the screen began to move, opening a new document and typing words: ‘She knows not what she sees.’ I stumbled back, my legs weak.

The phone rang, shattering the tension. It was Mabel, asking if I wanted anything from the store. I tried to sound calm, but my voice trembled. She must have sensed something, for she said, ‘Elbert’s old computer was always acting strange. He used to say that sometimes he’d hear whispers from the bog, telling him things.’ I asked what kind of things, but she just laughed and said, ‘Old man’s fancy.’ She promised to be home soon and hung up.

I couldn’t stay in that room. I ran upstairs to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to rationalize what I had seen. But the cold spot in the room wouldn’t leave, and I could swear I smelled cigarette smoke, a scent that reminded me of Elbert, who had smoked unfiltered cigarettes despite his cancer. I must have drifted off, because I woke to the sound of the computer booting up downstairs. I crept back down, my heart in my throat.

The computer was on, the screen glowing in the dark den. A new file was open, a text document with a single line: ‘You found the last recording. Now you must see the first.’ I noticed a folder on the desktop labeled ‘BEGINNINGS.’ I opened it to find a series of photos, all taken in this house, but decades ago. In each photo, there was a faint, translucent figure standing in the background, barely visible. The figure seemed to be watching over the family, but its features were indistinct. In one photo, taken in the den, the figure was beside a young Elbert, who was holding a cigarette.

I realized the dates on the photos: they coincided with times when Elbert had been alone in the house. I wondered if he had known about the presence. Perhaps he had welcomed it, or perhaps it had been a malevolent force that had slowly drained his life. The cigarette smoke smell grew stronger, and I heard a low, rasping voice whisper in my ear, ‘You take the chair, I’ll take the stand.’ I spun around, but no one was there.

I heard Mabel’s car pull into the gravel driveway. Relief washed over me. I quickly shut down the computer, but as I did, I saw one final message written in a large font: ‘She is next.’ I didn’t know what it meant. That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that message and about Mabel sleeping alone in her room at the end of the hall. I decided to check on her, but when I opened my door, I saw a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs, barely visible in the faint moonlight. It was tall, gaunt, and it was smoking a cigarette, its ember glowing like a malevolent eye. I stood paralyzed, and then it turned and walked into Mabel’s room. The door clicked shut.

I rushed down the hall, my hand on the doorknob, but it was locked. I pounded on the door, shouting her name, but there was no answer. The smell of smoke was overwhelming, and I heard a sound that chilled me to the bone: the creak of a rocking chair, slow and rhythmic, coming from within. I ran outside and looked up at her window. The light was on, and I could see the silhouette of my aunt, but behind her, the tall figure swayed, its head tilted as if whispering in her ear. I screamed, but no one heard me. The figure turned its head slowly, and even from that distance, I could see its eyes, two glowing embers, staring directly at me.

I woke the next morning on the cold ground beneath her window, covered in dew. The house was silent. I found Mabel at the kitchen table, drinking tea, acting as if nothing had happened. When I asked her if she had heard anything, she smiled and said, ‘Just the bog spirits. They come and go.’ I looked at her hands and saw a fresh pack of cigarettes on the table, a brand I knew Elbert used to smoke. She caught my gaze and said, ‘I’ve taken up the habit. It helps with the loneliness.’ I wanted to tell her everything, but the words stuck in my throat. The smoke from her cigarette curled into the air, and I could have sworn I saw a faint figure in the swirl, but when I blinked, it was gone.

I never slept in that house again. I made up an excuse about needing to go home, and Mabel seemed understanding. But on the day I left, as I drove down the long dirt road, I saw her standing on the porch, waving. And behind her, in the window, I saw the tall figure, now clearer than ever, its mouth moving as if speaking. I could read its lips: ‘You’ll be back.’ And I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold, that the secrets of that bog had only begun to be revealed, and that the last cigarette had not been smoked yet.