The Last Tenant

I first noticed it the night I moved into the old apartment on the edge of town, a place that had been vacant for months and rented at a suspiciously low rate. The building was a relic of another era, its red brick facade stained by decades of rain, and the hallway smelled of dust and something faintly metallic. My name is Evan, and I had just turned twenty-two, fresh out of a breakup and desperate for a place that didn’t remind me of her. The apartment itself was small: a cramped living room with a window that faced a brick wall, a tiny kitchen with a humming refrigerator, and a bedroom that held a mattress on the floor and a dresser with a missing knob. It was October, and the nights were already cold, so when I found the ancient radiator in the corner of the living room, I was relieved. But when I turned the valve, nothing happened.

I had moved in on a Saturday, hauling boxes and a single suitcase up three flights of stairs, my breath misting in the chill of the stairwell. The previous tenant had left a few things behind: a stack of yellowed newspapers from 1998, a chipped coffee mug with a faded smiley face, and a photograph face-down on the windowsill. I didn’t touch the photograph at first, but later that night, as the wind rattled the panes, I picked it up. It showed a young woman with dark hair, standing in front of the same apartment building, smiling but with a certain sadness in her eyes. On the back, in pencil, was a date: March 14, 1997. I set it back, assuming it was the previous tenant’s, and forgot about it. The radiator remained cold, so I wore a sweater to bed and fell asleep to the drip of a leaky faucet in the bathroom.

The first week passed uneventfully. I found a job at a diner three blocks away, working the evening shift, and I returned home late, the streetlights flickering as I walked. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Sometimes, I’d glance at the doorway to my bedroom and think I saw a silhouette, only to find it empty. At night, I’d hear soft footsteps in the hallway, but when I opened the door, there was no one there. I chalked it up to an old building, creaking with age. Then, on the second Friday, I came home to find the photograph had been turned face-up on the dresser, even though I had left it in the kitchen. I shivered, but I told myself I must have moved it in my sleep.

It was the rain that brought it out. The third week, a storm rolled in, turning the streets into rivers and making the windows rattle. I was lying in bed, listening to the downpour, when I heard a scratching sound from the living room. It was rhythmic, like fingernails dragging across wallpaper. I got up, heart pounding, and flipped on the light. The room was empty, but the sound continued, coming from the closet. I opened it cautiously, expecting a rat or a broken pipe, but found nothing except an old, moth-eaten coat hanging from a hook. I closed the door, and as I turned, I saw the photograph again, now on the coffee table, and the woman’s eyes seemed to follow me. I picked it up and threw it in the trash, telling myself it was just my imagination.

The next day, it was back on the windowsill.

I began to lose sleep. Every night, I’d hear whispers, too faint to make out, and the scratching would start again, moving from the closet to the walls, circling the apartment like a predator. I checked the radiator, the faucets, the wiring, but nothing was wrong. I called the landlord, a gruff man named Mr. Kowalski, and asked if there had been any incidents in the building. He was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘The last tenant, she died in that apartment. The one before her too. They always leave after a few months.’ He wouldn’t say more, and when I pressed him, he hung up.

I should have left then, but I was broke, and the rent was cheap. So I stayed, and I started to see her. At first, it was just a blur in my peripheral vision, a dark shape that vanished when I turned. But as the nights grew colder and the rain fell harder, she became more solid. She was a young woman, pale, with wet hair plastered to her face, and she stood in the corners of rooms, dripping water onto the floor. I tried to ignore her, but she followed me, her footsteps echoing mine when I walked. I’d wake up to find her standing over my bed, her mouth open as if to speak, but no sound came out. I began to scream at her, to tell her to leave, but she only tilted her head and stared.

Then, one night, I woke to find myself in the bathtub, fully clothed, the water ice-cold and rising. The room was dark, and I could see her silhouette through the shower curtain, holding the photograph in her hand. ‘Let me out,’ she whispered, and her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. ‘Let me out.’ I fought against a paralysis that gripped my limbs, and finally, I managed to lunge forward, tearing the curtain open. The bathroom was empty, but the photograph lay face-up in the water, and the date had changed to the current date. I stumbled out of the tub, dripping, and grabbed my keys. I drove to a motel on the highway, shaken, and I never went back.

But I couldn’t escape the memory. Months later, I received a letter from the apartment management, stating that they had found my belongings in storage and that I owed a cleaning fee. I never paid it. I moved to a new city, got a new job, tried to forget. But sometimes, on rainy nights, I’ll catch a glimpse of a dark-haired woman in the reflection of a window, and I’ll feel wet hair brush against my cheek. She still wants out, and I know that the apartment has already filled with the next tenant, a young man who just moved in last month, thinking he’d found a bargain. I can only hope he reads this and leaves before it’s too late, because once she’s inside you, she doesn’t let go. The last tenant always stays.