The Last Plate

The old boarding house on Zamora Street had been my refuge for three years, a crumbling relic of a bygone era where the walls breathed with the sighs of forgotten tenants. My room was on the second floor, but I had a peculiar duty: every night, after the last of the boarders had retreated to their beds, I would descend to the ground floor and wash the dishes from the communal dinner. It was a ritual I had come to accept, a quiet hour where the house was mine alone, save for the creaks and groans of settling wood.

That night was no different. The clock above the stove read 11:47 PM as I stood at the sink, the cold water numbing my fingers. The kitchen light hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow on the chipped tiles. The rest of the house was plunged into darkness, the long hallway to the living room a black maw that seemed to swallow even the faintest trace of light. I scrubbed a greasy plate, the only sound the scrape of the sponge and the drip of the faucet.

A prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck, raising the hairs there. I paused, my hand frozen on the plate. I knew that feeling—the unmistakable awareness of being watched. I tried to dismiss it, blaming the draft from the old windows, but the unease burrowed deeper. From the living room, I heard a sound: soft, shuffling footsteps on the wooden floor, barely audible but distinct in the silence. I held my breath, listening. The footsteps stopped near the sofa, which sat in the corner, cloaked in darkness.

I turned my head slightly, not wanting to make any sudden movements. ‘Is someone having trouble sleeping?’ I called out, my voice sounding thin and reedy. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. No creak of the floorboards, no cough, no rustle of clothing. Just the relentless ticking of the clock. I waited a moment longer, then turned back to the sink, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm.

I picked up another plate, but my hands were shaking. I told myself it was one of the other boarders—perhaps Marco, who often came down for a glass of water. But Marco’s footsteps were heavy, and he always whistled. This was different. This was cautious, almost ghostly. I tried to focus on the task, but my mind began to race with the stories the old house seemed to whisper: tales of a former tenant who had hung himself in the attic, of a woman who had drowned in the bathtub, of doors that opened on their own.

Then I heard it again—a soft patter, like bare feet on the tile, coming closer. I whirled around, but there was nothing. The kitchen doorway was empty, the hallway beyond stretched into darkness. The only light was the one above me, and it seemed to flicker for a moment. I told myself I was imagining things, that fatigue was playing tricks on me. I forced my attention back to the sink, but a wave of dread washed over me as I realized the pattern of the footsteps was wrong. They didn’t sound like a person walking; they sounded like someone dragging their feet, as if they were exhausted or injured.

A plate slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. I cursed under my breath, kneeling to pick up the shards. As I swept them into my hand, I caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of the dark window above the sink. A figure—tall and gaunt—stood in the hallway, just at the edge of the light. I froze, my heart lurching. I spun around, but there was no one. The hallway was empty, but the air had grown cold, and I could see my breath misting in front of me.

I stood up, my knees weak, and backed away from the sink. The shards scattered on the floor, but I didn’t care. I wanted to run, but my legs felt like they were rooted to the ground. The footsteps started again, this time from the living room, moving toward the kitchen. I watched the doorway, my eyes wide, as the sound grew louder. And then it stopped just before the threshold. A shadow fell across the doorway, cast by the light behind me.

‘Who’s there?’ I managed to choke out, my voice trembling. There was no answer. The shadow seemed to pulse, and then it faded, as if it had retreated back into the darkness. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, my body shaking. Finally, I mustered the courage to move, grabbing the broom to clean up the mess. But as I swept the shards into the dustpan, I noticed something on the floor—a wet footprint, leading from the hallway to the spot where the figure had stood. It was small, like a child’s foot, and it was fresh.

I straightened up, my mind reeling. I had never heard of a child living here. The house was filled with old men and women, all boarders, all quiet. I shook my head, telling myself it was just a trick of the light, a puddle from the sink. But the footprint was there, clear as day. I took a deep breath and decided to leave the kitchen, to go back to my room and forget this night ever happened. I turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and made my way to the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

As I climbed, I heard the sound of water running from the kitchen faucet. I stopped, listening. It was a soft, steady stream, as if someone had turned it on. I walked back down, my heart pounding. I pushed the door open, and the light was on. The kitchen was exactly as I had left it—except for one thing. A single clean plate sat on the counter, still dripping with water, as if it had just been washed. But I had done all the dishes. There were none left.

I stared at the plate for a long time, feeling the cold seep into my bones. And then I heard the footsteps again, but this time they were behind me. I turned slowly, and there, at the end of the hallway, stood a small figure, barely visible in the darkness. It was a child, a boy, his skin pale as bone, his eyes black as coal. He looked at me, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. I felt a scream rising in my throat, but before I could let it out, the figure dissolved in a puff of dust, and the plate fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

I fled to my room and locked the door. I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I asked the landlady about the house’s history. She hesitated, then told me about a family that had lived there in the 1950s—a mother, a father, and their son, who had drowned in the bath. His mother, driven mad by grief, had washed the dishes obsessively, hoping to scrub away the tragedy. She died in the kitchen, and the house had been haunted ever since. I never went down to the kitchen at night again. But sometimes, when I pass by the kitchen door, I see a clean plate on the counter, and I know the boy is still waiting for someone to finish the last plate.