The Last Tenant

In the autumn of 2014, I rented a room in an old Victorian house in the sleepy town of New Carthage, Ohio. The owners, Martha and Elias, were a kind elderly couple who treated me like their own granddaughter. I had moved from the chaos of Chicago to this quiet place for a fresh start after a bad breakup. The house was a relic of the 1890s, with creaking floors, stained glass windows, and a sprawling porch that wrapped around the front like a skeletal arm. I loved it, despite the odd musty smell that lingered in the hallway.

My room was on the second floor, at the end of a corridor lined with peeling wallpaper. The first few weeks were uneventful, save for a few inexplicable occurrences: the faint sound of a music box tinkling from the attic at midnight, the feeling of being watched when I walked down the back stairs, and once, a cold breath on the back of my neck when I was alone in the kitchen. I brushed them off as the quirks of an old house, and Martha, with her silver hair and gentle eyes, simply said, ‘The house has memories.’ Elias, who was usually taciturn, once muttered, ‘Some memories are best left undisturbed.’

I worked as a night-shift nurse at the local hospital, coming home around 7 AM. One morning, after a particularly grueling shift, I trudged up the stairs, desperate for sleep. As I reached the top, I saw the door to the room at the far end of the hall, which was always locked, slightly ajar. Martha had told me it was a storage room, but curiosity got the better of me. I pushed the door open and was hit by a wave of dust and decay. The room was filled with old furniture draped in white sheets, and in the center stood a large armoire with a mirror. The mirror was covered with a black cloth. I stepped closer, and as I reached to pull the cloth away, I heard Martha’s voice from downstairs, sharp and urgent: ‘Don’t touch that!’

I withdrew my hand, embarrassed. Martha appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale. ‘That room is off-limits,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone in.’ She sighed and led me away, locking the door behind her. ‘That mirror is from my grandmother,” she explained. ‘It’s an antique, but it has a strange energy. We never look into it.’ I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been watching me from the mirror, even through the cloth.

Over the next week, I became obsessed with that room. I’d find myself standing in front of the locked door, pressing my ear against the wood, listening for any sound. At night, I’d hear faint whispers, like a woman’s voice, calling my name. I tried to rationalize it: old house, creaky pipes, my own exhaustion. But one Thursday, I came home early to find Elias standing in the hallway, staring at the door with a look of pure terror. ‘She’s here again,’ he whispered, not looking at me. ‘She comes back every winter.’ I asked who, but he just shook his head and hurried outside.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the wind outside, when I heard the music box again, this time louder, coming from the storage room. I got up, my heart pounding, and walked to the door. It was unlocked. I opened it slowly, and the room was different—the sheets were gone, the furniture was rearranged, and the mirror was uncovered. Moonlight streamed through the window, and in the reflection, I saw a woman in a white dress, with dark hair and hollow eyes. She was standing behind me, but when I turned, no one was there. I looked back at the mirror, and she was closer now, her hand reaching out. I stumbled back, but my reflection seemed to lag, and in the mirror, I saw her smile.

I ran to Martha’s room, but she was not there. Elias was nowhere either. I searched the house, calling their names, but it was empty. Then I heard a crash from the kitchen. I rushed down to find the back door wide open, and a gust of cold air swept in. On the floor was a photograph, face down. I picked it up and turned it over. It was an old sepia picture of Martha and Elias, standing in front of this same house, but they looked decades younger, and next to them was a young woman with dark hair—the same woman from the mirror. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘E.M., M.E., and our beloved daughter, Clara, 1898.’

I dropped the photo, my hands shaking. I ran to my room, grabbed my keys, and fled the house. I drove until dawn, not knowing where I was going. When I finally stopped at a gas station, I called the hospital to say I wouldn’t be coming in, and I checked my phone. I had three missed calls from Martha, but when I listened to the voicemails, they were all static, except for the last one, just a whisper: ‘Come home.’ I never did. I moved to the other side of the state, but even now, I still feel her eyes on me, and sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I see a shadow in the reflection that doesn’t move when I do.