The Last Tenant

In the autumn of 2005, I moved into a newly renovated studio on the top floor of a converted warehouse in the port district of Greyhaven. The building was a labyrinth of exposed brick and steel beams, and I was the only resident on my floor. My neighbor across the hall, an elderly man named Mr. Albright, had lived there since the 1980s and warned me about the drafts and the creaking pipes.

For six months, nothing unusual happened. I worked nights as a hospital clerk, and the solitude was a welcome change. But one evening, after a particularly grueling shift, I crawled into bed at dawn and fell into a deep sleep. I woke a few hours later to the sensation of cold fingers tracing my spine. I lay still, heart pounding, telling myself it was just a phantom from a dream. But the pressure grew heavier, and I bolted upright, flicking on the lamp. The room was empty.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. I decided to sleep on the sofa in the living area, hoping the change would calm my nerves. I pulled a blanket over myself and stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old building. Just as I began to drift off, a deafening crash erupted from the bathroom. It sounded as if every bottle and jar had been hurled against the tile. I leaped up, my heart in my throat, and flung open the bathroom door. The floor was littered with shampoo bottles and soap dishes, but the mirror was intact. My toothbrush was floating in the sink, slowly spinning.

I backed away, trembling, and dialed Mr. Albright. He answered after several rings, his voice raspy. ‘Ah, so you’ve met her,’ he said. ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘The previous tenant. A woman named Elsie. She died in that bathroom in 1999. The police ruled it an accident, but the people who lived there after always spoke of her. She’s harmless, just restless. She doesn’t like being alone.’

I was furious and terrified. Why hadn’t he told me sooner? He mumbled an apology and said, ‘I thought you might not believe. But I’ll say this: she’s not the only one here. There’s something else in the walls. Something older. That’s why she lingers.’

I decided to leave that night. I packed a bag and headed for the stairwell. As I reached the landing, the lights flickered, and I saw a woman in a floral dress standing at the end of the corridor. She was translucent, her face twisted in sorrow. She pointed toward my apartment, and I felt a chill pass through me. Behind her, a darker shape loomed in the shadows, and I heard a low, guttural whisper that sounded like my name.

I ran down the stairs, not looking back. I spent the night at a motel and returned in the morning to gather my things. The apartment was cold, and the bathroom door was ajar. I found a note on the kitchen counter, written in shaky handwriting: ‘She kept the others out. But he follows her now. You were right to run.’ It was signed ‘Albright.’

I fled Greyhaven that day and never returned. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I feel a cold draft on my back, and I hear the sound of a woman weeping through the walls. And I know that whatever I woke that morning was not just a ghost—it was a door to something far worse, and I had opened it by stepping inside.