The Last Inhabitant of Mulberry Lane

In the autumn of 1984, my parents, both retired from the military, decided to take a long-awaited trip to the Far East, leaving me to house-sit their sprawling Victorian home on Mulberry Lane. The house had always felt oppressive, with its high ceilings and dark wood paneling, but recent burglaries in the neighborhood had made them anxious, and I was the only one they trusted. They gave me a list of instructions, including checking the mail, watering the plants, and locking the storm windows. As they drove away, I felt an uneasy sense of solitude settle over me.

I had grown up in that house, but I never quite felt at home there. The previous owner, an elderly professor of history, had died under mysterious circumstances, and local legend whispered that he still lingered in the attic. I used to hear faint rustling at night, which I attributed to rodents or the old house settling. But this visit, the sounds were different. On the second night, I distinctly heard footsteps in the hallway above my bedroom, slow and deliberate. I called out, but there was no answer. I climbed the stairs, heart pounding, to find nothing but dust and shadows.

A few days passed, and I tried to dismiss the occurrences as figments of my imagination. But then, the doors began to open on their own. The pantry door, which I always kept shut, would be wide open when I came downstairs. The front door, which I had double-locked, was ajar one evening. I started to wonder if the burglars had become bolder, but there were no signs of forced entry. I even set a trap with flour on the floor near the back door, but in the morning, the flour was undisturbed, yet the door was unlocked.

I decided to research the house’s history at the local library. The records were sparse, but I found an old newspaper article from 1884 about a woman who had lived there, a spinster named Eleanor Finch. She was known as a recluse, and her death was attributed to a ‘broken heart.’ The article mentioned that she had a collection of antique dolls, which she kept in a special room. I realized that the attic might still hold some of her belongings. I climbed to the attic, a place I had rarely explored, and found a chest filled with dusty dolls, their glass eyes staring blankly. I felt a chill, as if I were being watched.

That night, I woke to a strange sound—a soft lullaby, hummed in a melodic, ghostly tone. I traced it to the attic door, which was now slightly open, a sliver of light escaping from the room beyond. I had not left any light there. I pushed the door open and saw the dolls arranged on a small table, as if they had been playing tea party. One of them, a porcelain figure with golden curls, was turned to face me. I felt a surge of terror and slammed the door shut. I ran back to my room and locked the door, but the humming continued outside, growing louder.

I called the police the next morning, but they found nothing unusual. I tried to convince myself that it was stress, but I knew in my heart that something was wrong. I started leaving the house as much as possible, visiting neighbors, but they were all out. I returned to the library and found that Eleanor Finch had been accused of witchcraft in the 1890s, though she was cleared. I also discovered that she had a son who died in infancy, and she was never the same after. The speculation was that she kept his spirit in her dolls, and that she had cursed anyone who would disturb them.

Desperate, I decided to confront the presence. I armed myself with a cross and some holy water from the church, and I climbed to the attic once more, determined to end this. I opened the chest and began to remove the dolls, firing them into a trash bag. But as I lifted the last one, the room turned freezing, and I heard a voice—an old woman’s voice—whisper in my ear, ‘You should not have done that.’ I spun around, but there was no one there. I dropped the doll, and it shattered on the floor, releasing a cloud of dust that smelled of perfume and decay.

I fled the house, driving to a hotel in town. I called my parents, but they were unreachable. I considered selling the place, but I knew no one would buy it after what I knew. I returned two days later, hoping that the presence had been appeased by the sacrifice of the dolls. But as I stepped through the door, I saw that all the furniture had been rearranged, as if by some invisible force. The living room sofa was facing the wall, and the chairs were stacked in a circle. On the mantelpiece, a single doll sat, the one I had dropped, its porcelain face cracked, but its eyes glinting in the light.

I knew then that the house was feeding on my fear, and that the entity was not a ghost, but something far older, something that had been awakened by my curiosity. I gathered what was precious to me and left. I never looked back, but I still receive letters, forwarded to my new address, from the house itself, written in an old-fashioned script, demanding that I return. I have burned them all, but the fear remains, a cold knot in my stomach, telling me that the house will never let me go, that it is waiting for me to come back, to be its last and final inhabitant.