The Last Tenant of the Meridian

In the autumn of 1999, after my divorce was finalized, I found myself in a state of thorough exhaustion. My boss, a sympathetic soul, insisted I take a week off and booked me a flight to Chicago, where we both hoped a baseball game would lift my spirits. But the Cubs were on the road, and my budget was tight, so I ended up in a rundown district on the South Side, in a decrepit hotel called the Meridian.

The Meridian was the kind of place where the lobby smelled of stale cigarettes and despair, and the wallpaper peeled like sunburned skin. The desk clerk, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, handed me a key attached to a brass fob shaped like a crescent moon. ‘Room 407,’ he said, his voice a dry whisper. ‘Elevator’s broken. Stairs are to your left.’ I didn’t question him; I was too tired. The stairwell was dim, the bulbs flickering, and I half-expected a horror movie cliché around every corner. But I made it to the fourth floor, my room at the end of a long, narrow hallway where the carpet was stained with unknown substances.

Room 407 was small but tolerable, with a single bed, a rickety dresser, and a window that overlooked a brick wall. I threw my bag on the bed and noticed a faint scratching sound, like something clawing at the wall. I pressed my ear to the plaster, but the sound stopped. I dismissed it as rats and decided to explore the neighborhood for dinner. As I left, I noticed a door at the far end of the hall, marked with a faded ‘401.’ A thin line of light escaped from beneath it, and I heard a low, rhythmic humming. I thought it odd, but I had no reason to investigate.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The scratching resumed, growing louder, and then I heard a voice, muffled but distinct, as if it were coming from inside the wall. ‘Let me out.’ I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding. ‘Who’s there?’ I called out, but the voice fell silent. I turned on the lamp, and the scratching stopped. I convinced myself it was the wind or a faulty pipe, and eventually, I dozed off. That was my first mistake.

The next morning, I decided to ask the clerk about the noises. He was reading a newspaper, and when I mentioned Room 401, he looked up sharply. ‘No one’s stayed in 401 in years,’ he said. ‘Last tenant disappeared in ’85. They found his belongings but never him. The door’s locked, and we don’t open it. Some things are better left alone.’ He went back to his paper, and I left, unsettled.

That afternoon, I wandered the city, but my mind kept returning to the Meridian. I bought a souvenir baseball and tried to cheer myself up, but the image of that thin line of light haunted me. I returned to the hotel early, and as I passed Room 401, the humming was louder, and I could swear I heard my own name whispered through the door. ‘Daniel…’ I froze. No one knew I was here, not even my ex-wife. The voice was insistent, almost pleading. I pressed my ear to the cold wood. ‘Please, let me out. It’s been so long.’ I felt a chill run down my spine, and I fled to my room, locking the door.

That night, the scratching was coming from the wall behind my headboard. I put on my shoes and crept into the hallway. The door to 401 was slightly ajar, emitting an eerie glow. I knew I should turn back, but something pulled me forward. I pushed the door open, and the room was bathed in a sickly fluorescent light. The walls were covered in strange symbols, and in the center of the floor was a large circle carved into the wood. At its center lay a small, tarnished locket. I picked it up, and as I opened it, a woman’s face stared back at me, her eyes wide with terror. The room grew cold, and I heard a voice behind me: ‘You shouldn’t have touched that.’

I spun around, but no one was there. The door slammed shut, and the lights flickered. Then, in the mirror above the dresser, I saw a figure—a gaunt man with hollow eyes, just like the clerk, but his face was twisted in agony. He writhed as if being torn apart, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. I realized with horror that he was trapped, just like the voice had said. He gestured to the locket, then to the door, and mouthed, ‘Leave before she comes back.’

I bolted out of the room, not stopping until I reached the lobby. The clerk was gone, replaced by a young woman with a vacant stare. ‘Checkout is at noon,’ she said. I handed her my key and fled the Meridian, my heart racing. I never looked back, but that night, from my new hotel across the city, I heard a faint scratching at my window. I peered out, but saw nothing. The locket, I realized, was still in my pocket.

I tried to get rid of it—throwing it into the river, mailing it to a dead address—but it always reappeared in my belongings. Finally, I accepted it. I keep it in a drawer, wrapped in cloth, and every so often, I hear a faint humming, and I swear I hear a whisper: ‘You let me out. Now you must take my place.’ I haven’t been the same since. I see the figure in my dreams, and sometimes, when I look in the mirror, for a split second, I see his face. I’ve moved cities, changed jobs, but the locket always finds its way back. I’ve learned to live with it, but I know one day, the scratching will grow loud, and the door will open again. And this time, it will be my turn to be the last tenant of the Meridian.