The Last Cigarette

I’ve always been particular about order—maybe it’s a sickness. So when the off-campus house fell into chaos after the end-of-semester blowout, I was the one who stayed behind with a trash bag and a grimace. The others stumbled to their rooms, leaving me on the second-floor porch, which overlooked the overgrown backyard of our rented Victorian. The house was old, all creaking floors and doors that didn’t fit their frames, but the landlord insisted it had ‘character.’ I thought it had drafts.

It was past midnight, and the air had the damp chill of late spring. I was bending over to snatch a crushed soda can from between the floorboards when a voice, low and gravelly, came from the direction of the screen door. ‘Hey.’ I straightened, expecting one of my housemates to be lurking in the shadows, wanting to chat or bum a smoke. ‘What’s up?’ I called back, but the hallway beyond the screen was empty, and the door was slowly swinging shut by itself. I wrote it off as the wind, the old hinge, maybe a prank. I pushed the door open and peered down the dim corridor. Three doors, all closed, and at the far end, the staircase to the third floor. The bulb at the top of the stairs cast a weak yellow cone, but nothing moved.

‘Yo, bro, what’d you want?’ I stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind me with a click that didn’t sound like the latch. The hallway smelled of stale beer and dust. I noticed something on the floor near the last door: a cigarette butt, still smoldering. I hadn’t seen anyone smoking in the house all night; we were a pipe and vape crowd. I ground it out with my shoe, but a faint smoke trail rose from the end as if it were alive. I followed it with my eyes to the third door, which was slightly ajar.

That door led to the room we used for storage—boxes of old decorations, broken furniture, and a closet that was always locked. I’d never been in there; the landlord had never given us a key. But the door was open now, and I could see a faint light flickering inside, like a candle. Against my better judgment, I pushed the door wider. The room was cluttered, but at the center sat a single wooden chair, and on the chair rested a tarnished music box. The melody it played was a slow, lullaby-like tune that I didn’t recognize, but it made the hairs on my arms stand up. I approached, and the music box began to speed up slightly, the notes becoming jumbled and frantic.

I reached out to close the lid, and that’s when I saw the photograph tucked into the frame. It was a black-and-white picture of a young man in an old-fashioned suit, standing in front of this very house, but the porch was different—no railing, no screen door, just a wooden stoop. His face was blurred, but his eyes seemed to be staring straight at me, and his lips were slightly parted as if he were about to speak. The music box stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, I heard a voice, not from the hallway, but from right behind me, whispering, ‘You found my last one.’

I spun around, but the room was empty. The cigarette butt was gone from where I’d crushed it. I felt a cold draft, and the candle flame flickered, then went out, leaving only the faint glow from the hallway. I stumbled backward, out of the room, and slammed the door shut. I stood there, heart pounding, listening. From inside, I heard the music box start again, this time playing a discordant tune that sounded like laughter. I didn’t stay to investigate. I ran down the stairs to the second floor, but when I reached the landing, I realized the hallway was longer than it should be, with an extra flight of steps leading up, not down. I’d gone up instead of down. I turned to face the third door, which was open again, and the music box was now sitting on the threshold, its lid open, and inside lay the cigarette butt, unburned, as if it had never been lit.

I forced myself to move, to reach for the door to the stairwell, but my hand passed through the knob as if it were smoke. The house had changed. The walls were bare, peeling paint, and the floorboards were rough, warped. The hallway smelled of coal smoke and cheap tobacco. I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, slow and deliberate. A man’s voice, the same voice from outside, echoed: ‘You shouldn’t have picked up my habit.’ The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. I turned to face the sound, but there was no one there. A cold hand pressed against my shoulder, and I felt a cigarette pressed between my fingers, still lit. The voice whispered, ‘Take a drag. It’s the last one.’

I looked at the cigarette. The ember glowed like an eye. I knew if I took it, I’d never put it down. I dropped it, and it vanished before hitting the floor. The pressure on my shoulder increased, forcing me to my knees. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was back on the second-floor porch, the cold night air biting my cheeks. The screen door was closed, but through the glass, I saw the hallway, normal again, with the three doors shut. I got to my feet, shaking, and walked to the door. I peeked in. The hallway was dark, but at the far end, near the third door, a thin wisp of smoke curled upward from the floor. The music box was nowhere to be seen, but I could still hear its faint tune, now fading into the walls.

I never told anyone what happened. I stopped cleaning at night. But every time I passed that storage room, I felt a pair of invisible eyes on my back, and sometimes, I’d find a freshly lit cigarette on the floor, just at the threshold, as if waiting for me to do something. I never touched one again. But the day I moved out, I found an old cigarette case in my jacket pocket, engraved with a date: 1923, and the initials ‘J.R.’ I threw it away, but sometimes, when the wind blows from the backyard, I swear I can hear a man’s voice saying, ‘Hey,’ and I know he’s still there, looking for his last cigarette.