The Last Tenant

The house on Maple Street had a peculiar history, but I didn’t learn about it until I was seventeen, when I moved into the back bedroom of my mother’s new place. The house was a modest two-story Victorian, freshly painted pale yellow, with a wraparound porch that creaked underfoot. It had been empty for years, and my mother got it cheap because the previous owner had passed away—an old woman named Mrs. Gable who had lived there alone for decades. They found her in the claw-foot tub upstairs, her hand still clutching a bar of lavender soap.

I loved that room instantly. Big windows overlooked the overgrown garden, and the afternoon light made the dust motes dance. I was a quiet kid, used to being on my own, so the solitude was welcome. My mother, a nurse, worked long shifts, and my younger sister, who had cerebral palsy, lived with our grandparents, so most evenings it was just me, my books, and the hum of the old refrigerator.

The first sign that something was wrong came three weeks in. I woke up at 3:33 AM—I checked the clock—to the sound of water running. Not the drip-drip of a leaky faucet, but the full, heavy pour of a bathtub filling up. I lived alone with my mom, who was working the night shift, so I knew it wasn’t her. I walked to the bathroom across the hall, but the door was locked. I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I called out, but the only answer was the water, gurgling down the drain. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. I pressed my ear to the door and heard a soft, wet sigh. I ran back to my room and pulled the covers over my head.

In the morning, the bathroom was dry. There was not a speck of water on the floor, and the tub was bone-dry. My mom said nothing had happened, and she assumed I’d had a nightmare. I tried to forget about it, but the incident stuck in my mind like a splinter.

Over the following weeks, the occurrences grew more frequent. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway at night—slow, shuffling, as if someone was dragging their feet. I’d find the lights flickering in the kitchen, though the bulbs were new. And once, I saw a faint fog on the bathroom mirror, as if someone had just taken a hot shower. But the most unsettling thing was the smell. It would come and go, a sweet, cloying fragrance of lavender and something else—something like decay. It always originated from the bathroom.

I started doing research on the house. The previous owner, Mrs. Gable, had been a recluse. Neighbors said she’d rarely left the house after her husband died in the 1990s. Her death was ruled as a heart attack, but the coroner’s report mentioned she was found in the tub, fully dressed, with her eyes wide open. The house had sat empty for five years before my mother bought it.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in my bed, listening to the wind rattle the windows, when I heard a new sound: a faint, rhythmic dripping. It was coming from the bathroom. I got up, my heart pounding, and approached the door. This time, it wasn’t locked. The handle turned easily, and the door swung open to reveal the bathroom bathed in a sickly yellow light from the bulb that was flickering. The tub was full of water, and floating in it was a hairbrush—I recognized it as one I’d accidentally left in there earlier that day. But that wasn’t what terrified me. On the mirror, written in the condensation, was a single word: ‘MINE.’

I backed away, my throat tight. I called my mother, but she didn’t answer. I called my grandmother, who lived close by, and she came over within minutes. She found me huddled in the hallway, shaking. She didn’t question me. She just held me, and later, she told me the truth. ‘This house has a history,’ she said. ‘The woman who lived here—Mrs. Gable—she lost a child. A daughter who drowned in that very tub. It was an accident, they said, but she never forgave herself. She used to sit in that bathroom for hours, talking to the tub. Some say she never left.’

I didn’t want to believe it, but the occurrences became more deliberate. One evening, I was in the kitchen when I heard a child’s laughter coming from upstairs. It was a high, tinkling sound, and it sent chills down my spine. I crept upstairs and saw a shadow dart into the bathroom. I ran after it, but when I reached the doorway, the bathroom was empty. Then the faucet turned on by itself, a thin stream of water that filled the sink. The mirror began to fog up, and letters appeared, one by one: ‘LEAVE.’

I didn’t need to be told twice. That night, I packed a bag and went to my grandparents’ house. My mother, who was skeptical, decided to stay, thinking I was being overly imaginative. But a week later, she called me, her voice trembling. She said she’d heard the water running all night, and when she went to check, she found the bathtub filled with water and a child’s rubber duck floating in it—a duck she’d never seen before. She told me she’d contacted a local historian, who told her the house had been built on the site of an old orphanage that had burned down in the 1920s, killing several children. The land had a reputation even then.

I never set foot in that house again. My mother sold it six months later to a young couple who were unaware of its history. They lasted two years before they moved out, citing ‘water damage’ as the reason. But I knew better. I still have nightmares about that bathroom, about the water running, and the word ‘MINE’ etched on the mirror. Some places, you see, are never truly empty. They just wait for the next tenant.