The Last Tenant of Mallory House

I hadn’t posted on the forums in almost three years. Not since the incident at the orchard. I thought if I stopped sharing, stopped feeding the narrative, the presence would lose interest. That maybe it was the attention that kept it tethered to me. I had a daughter now, a quiet little girl named Lily, and my girlfriend, Rachel, and I lived in a small duplex on the edge of town, far from the old farmhouse where I used to stay. For a while, it worked. The dreams faded. The cold spots vanished. I almost convinced myself it had all been stress, grief, maybe even a brief psychotic break after my father’s death. But then October rolled around, and Sarah from accounting, who knew I was ‘into that stuff,’ started asking questions. She’d heard I had stories, real ones. She wanted to know if I believed in ghosts, if I’d ever seen one. I laughed it off, but something in me tensed. That night, I felt a breath on the back of my neck while brushing my teeth, even though I was alone. I ignored it. The next morning, Lily’s baby monitor, which was unplugged, crackled with static. I unplugged it again. Then, three days ago, I found a moth in the bathroom, its wings patterned like a face. I froze. I hadn’t seen that moth since the days at Anne’s house. I knew then that it wasn’t my imagination. And I knew I had to write it down, to see if I was the only one seeing this again.

Rachel was at her sister’s for the weekend, visiting with Lily. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the radiator. I sat in the living room, laptop open, a glass of whiskey on the table, trying to type. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I kept thinking about Sarah’s questions, how she’d leaned in, her eyes wide, and said, ‘I had a dream last night that your house had a room with a blue door, and behind it was a hallway that went nowhere, but there was a person standing at the end, waving. He was waving because he wanted me to come closer.’ She’d laughed it off, said it was because of our conversation. But she hadn’t told me that the dream had a name. ‘Mallory,’ she’d said, almost as an afterthought, ‘I think the person in the dream said his name was Mallory.’ My blood ran cold. Mallory was the family that owned the property where Anne’s house stood. Old Man Mallory had been dead for over a decade. His son, Jacob, had disappeared the same year I had my first experience. So why was Sarah dreaming about a room I’d never told her about? A room I’d only seen once, in a vision I’d never shared with anyone?

I closed my laptop. The whiskey burned as I drank. The radiator clanked. I thought about the first time I ever saw the moth. It was in Anne’s house, in the summer of 2016. Anne was an old woman, a client of my father’s, and I’d been helping him with some electrical work. She was odd, always speaking in riddles, and she had a peculiar obsession with the moths that flocked to her porch light. ‘They’re messengers,’ she’d told me, her voice like dry leaves. ‘They carry the names of the forgotten. If you see one with a face on its wings, it’s a warning. Someone’s trying to get out.’ I had laughed then, a nervous chuckle, but that night, I saw it. A moth the size of my hand, its wings patterned with a spectral face, and behind it, a door that wasn’t part of the house’s architecture. A blue door. And from under the door, a whispering voice that called my name. I never told my father. I never went back. Anne died two months later, and the house was demolished. I thought that was the end of it. But now, the moth was back, and with it, the name Mallory. And I had the sinking feeling that Mallory wasn’t a ghost. He was something else. Something that had been waiting for a connection, a person who could see him, and I had unknowingly opened that door by talking to Sarah.

The radiator clanked again, louder this time. Then the lights flickered. I looked at the window, expecting to see a storm, but the sky was clear, a cold, silver moon. The moth was perched on the lampshade, its wings fanning slowly. I watched it, and I felt a pressure in my skull, like a headache behind my eyes. The humming grew, and the air thickened. The room’s temperature dropped. I stood, my heart hammering, and I followed the moth. It flew toward the hallway, then stopped at the door to the basement. The door was gray, but as I stared, it began to change. The paint peeled, revealing a smooth, cobalt surface. A blue door. My breath caught. The handles were brass, gleaming as if polished. And from behind it, a sound like dripping water, and a voice, faint but clear, ‘I knew you’d come back.’

I should have run. I should have packed my things and taken Lily and Rachel far away. But something in that voice was familiar, almost like a long-lost friend. I felt a pull, a compulsion. I reached for the knob. The brass was cold, and when I turned it, the door swung open with a sigh. Beyond wasn’t the basement’s staircase. Instead, there was a hallway, stretching impossibly long, lined with more doors, all in shades of gray and brown. At the far end, a figure stood, silhouetted. It raised a hand and waved, just as Sarah described. I stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind me. The moth fluttered past me, landing on the shoulder of the figure. He was tall, gaunt, wearing a tattered suit, and his face was a shifting mass of shadows, except for his eyes, which were the color of dried blood. He smiled, and his teeth were like a row of yellowed keys. ‘You’ve brought her the name,’ he said, his voice like gravel in a drain. ‘Now you’ll take her place.’

I woke on the living room floor, the laptop still open on the table, the moth gone. My head throbbed, and my mouth tasted of copper. I checked my phone. It was 3 a.m. The message from Rachel: ‘Call me. Lily keeps saying there’s a man in her closet. It’s not funny.’ I called, but it went to voicemail. I sent a text. No reply. I tried again and again, but nothing. Panic rose. I grabbed my keys and drove to Rachel’s sister’s place in the next town. The streets were empty, fog clinging to the pavement. When I arrived, the house was dark. I let myself in with the spare key. Lily’s room was down the hall. I pushed the door open. The room was bare, stripped of furniture, as if no one had ever lived there. On the wall, someone had written in a child’s crayon: ‘He said you forgot me.’

I never saw Rachel or Lily again. I searched for years. The police were useless. ‘No record of them,’ they said. ‘No missing persons match.’ But I know. Mallory, the Tenant of a house that exists in the spaces between, took them because I opened the door. And now, as I write this in my motel room, I see a moth in the corner of the ceiling. Its wings are patterned with two faces now, one that looks like Rachel, and one like Lily. And I know that he is not done with me. He wants me to find the blue door again. He wants me to bring him more names. And God help me, I’m afraid I’ll do it. Because the only way I’ll ever see my family again is to walk through that door and take their place. But I’m not sure I’m strong enough. I’m not sure I can face him again. And that’s the worst part. I’m not sure I can let them go, either. So I’m sharing this, in case anyone out there has seen a blue door with a brass handle. If you have, don’t open it. Whatever you hear on the other side, whatever familiar voice calls, don’t stop to listen. Turn around, and run. And never speak of the name Mallory. Because he is listening. And he has quite the collection.
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