The Last Tenant

The house on Marrow Lane had a reputation, but Maggie didn’t believe in ghosts. She was a practical woman, a retired nurse who had seen enough death to know that the dead stayed dead. When her brother, Pete, asked her to house-sit while he and his wife, Carol, took their anniversary trip to the coast, she agreed without hesitation. ‘It’s just a house,’ she told herself. ‘Old and creaky, but just a house.’

The first day was uneventful. She unpacked her suitcase in the guest room, noting the faded wallpaper with its pattern of wilted roses. The dog, a scruffy terrier named Gizmo, followed her everywhere, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors. But when she approached the staircase leading to the second floor, Gizmo stopped. He planted his paws and let out a low, guttural growl. His hackles rose, and his eyes fixed on the top of the landing. Maggie frowned. ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ She reached down to pat him, but he shrank away, snapping at her hand. ‘Fine,’ she muttered, and went upstairs alone. The stairs creaked under her weight, and the air grew colder with each step. At the top, there were three doors: one to the master bedroom, one to a study, and one to a small bathroom. All were shut. She tried the master door, but it was locked. ‘Pete must have left it locked,’ she thought. She tried the study, but it too was locked. The bathroom door swung open easily, revealing a cracked mirror and a rusted faucet. She made a mental note to ask Pete about the locks and went back downstairs.

That night, as she sat in the living room watching TV, she heard a sound from upstairs: a soft thud, then another, then a series of rapid bangs. She turned off the TV and listened. The sounds grew louder, like someone slamming doors repeatedly. She grabbed a flashlight and crept up the stairs, Gizmo cowering under the sofa. At the top, she froze. All three doors were open. She hadn’t opened them. She hadn’t touched them. She walked to the master bedroom and saw the door hanging off its hinges, the wood splintered. The study door was also unhinged, leaning against the doorframe. The bathroom door was on the floor, its mirror shattered. A cold draft swept through the hallway, and she felt a presence behind her. She spun around, but there was nothing. Just the empty, dark hallway. She didn’t sleep that night. She kept the lights on and sat in the kitchen, Gizmo pressed against her leg, trembling.

On the third day, Pete called to check in. ‘Having fun?’ he asked cheerfully. Maggie hesitated. ‘Pete, did you hear any strange noises before you left?’ There was a pause. ‘You mean the banging? Yeah, it happens. Grandpa used to say it was the last tenant. Guy who lived here in the 70s killed himself in the attic. Hanged himself. Dad never believed it, but we all heard it. Don’t worry, it goes away after a while.’ Maggie wanted to tell him about the doors, but she feared he’d think she was crazy. She said, ‘Fine, just checking.’ And hung up.

Christmas came, and Maggie decided to stay. She didn’t want to travel, and Pete and Carol were throwing a big family dinner. The house was decorated with a tall fir tree in the living room, adorned with ornaments and strings of lights. Maggie’s relatives arrived, filling the house with laughter and the smell of roast turkey. But as they sat down to eat, Maggie noticed the tree begin to sway. At first she thought it was a draft, but the windows were sealed. The swaying grew more violent, the ornaments clinking together, the star on top wobbling. Pete’s uncle, a stoic man named Harold, pointed at the tree. ‘Are you all seeing that?’ he asked. Carol nodded, her face pale. The tree shook harder, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. A dead silence fell over the room. Harold laughed nervously. ‘Old house, guess it’s a bit drafty.’ But everyone knew it wasn’t.

Two days later, Maggie was alone again. She had taken to avoiding the staircase altogether. One evening, she was in the kitchen pouring a glass of water when she felt a cold breath on the back of her neck. She spun around, but no one was there. The air was thick with the smell of dust and something metallic, like old blood. She set down the glass, her hand shaking. She heard a whisper, faint but clear: ‘Leave.’ She didn’t wait. She grabbed Gizmo and her coat, and drove to a motel on the outskirts of town. She never returned to the house, and she never spoke of what she saw. But sometimes, in the dead of night, she wakes up to the sound of banging, and she knows that the last tenant is still there, waiting for someone to listen.