The Latch That Clicked Twice

In the autumn of 2002, I found myself adrift after a bitter separation from my wife, and I traded the bustling streets of Manchester for a quieter existence in a coastal town. Through a family acquaintance, I secured a ground-floor flat in a converted Victorian house on a leafy cul-de-sac, a short stumble from the seafront pubs I frequented to drown my sorrows. The flat was modest but comfortable: a single bedroom, a living room that doubled as a dining area, and a kitchenette that smelled faintly of damp plaster. My landlord, a reclusive retired schoolteacher named Mr. Albright, lived in the flat above and never seemed to leave, though I heard the occasional creak of floorboards at odd hours.

It wasn’t long before I met Lena, a lively woman with a sharp laugh and a son named Ethan, a quiet boy of fourteen who wore oversized headphones and had a habit of staring at screens for hours. Lena and I hit it off, and after a few months, she agreed to move in on a trial basis. Ethan came to visit for a weekend, and I quickly found myself out of my depth as he tried to teach me the intricacies of setting up an email account on my clunky desktop computer. The screen was a maze of blue and white, and I nodded along, pretending to understand.

As the afternoon wore on, a chill crept into the flat, and I remembered the drafty door that led to the communal hallway. We’d hung a heavy velvet curtain over it to block the cold air, but it had come loose during the last storm. I excused myself from Ethan’s tutorial and walked to the door. I opened it into the hallway, which was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. The air was musty, and I noticed a faint odor of mothballs. I grabbed the curtain, which had a series of brass rings along its top, and slipped it back over the door frame, careful to align each ring. As I turned away, I felt a sudden draft, but I dismissed it.

Back in the living room, Lena was hovering near the bathroom, her arms crossed, and her face was a mask of irritation. She had been nagging me about my habit of leaving beer bottles on the coffee table, and I had retorted that I wasn’t her ex-husband. Her son sat at the desk, his back to us, the click of the mouse punctuating our heated exchange. I stood by the bedroom door, my hand resting on the frame, and we were in the thick of an argument when I heard it: a soft, deliberate click from the hallway, like a latch being turned. I paused, mid-sentence, and looked over my shoulder.

The curtain was moving. Not just rustling from the draft, but a distinct bulge, as if something was pressing against the fabric from the hallway side. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked, but Lena was mid-tirade and didn’t notice. Ethan, however, stopped typing and turned his head slightly, his eyes wide behind his glasses. ‘Hey, Mr. H.,’ he said, his voice low, ‘I think someone’s out there.’

I walked back to the door, my heart thumping. I hadn’t locked it when I pulled the curtain; I rarely did, as it was a safe area. I pulled the curtain aside and peered through the frosted glass panel. The hallway was empty, but the air was colder than before, and I could see my breath. I opened the door fully and stepped into the hall. The light bulb at the far end was flickering, casting dancing shadows on the wallpaper. The door to Mr. Albright’s flat was closed, but I noticed a thin line of light coming from the gap underneath. He usually kept it dark. I called out, ‘Hello? Mr. Albright?’ but there was no answer.

Feeling uneasy, I returned to the flat and turned the deadbolt, something I never did. Lena rolled her eyes. ‘What? Scared of the big bad wolf?’ I muttered, ‘Something didn’t feel right.’ Ethan had gone back to the computer, but his shoulders were tense. I tried to resume the conversation, but our argument had lost its fire. I decided to make tea to calm my nerves.

As I filled the kettle, I heard another click, this time from behind me, near the bedroom. I spun around. The bedroom door, which I had left ajar, was now closed. Lena was standing in the same spot, and Ethan was still at the computer. ‘Did you close that?’ I asked. She shook her head, her brow furrowed. I approached the bedroom door, and as I reached for the handle, it turned by itself. The door swung inward, revealing the dark interior. A cold draft wafted out, carrying a faint trace of something sweet and cloying, like rotting flowers.

I reached for the light switch, but before I could flip it, I felt a pressure on my shoulder, as if someone had placed their hand there. I whirled around, but no one was there. Lena gasped, her hand covering her mouth. ‘Did you feel that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my mouth dry. Ethan had stood up and was backing toward the hallway. ‘I want to leave,’ he said, his voice trembling.

Then, from the hallway, we heard a third click, and the sound of the doorknob being tested. The curtain billowed inward, as if someone was trying to push through. I ran to the door and peered through the spyhole. In the distorted view, I saw the hallway, but there was a dark shape, like a tall man in a coat, standing just out of the light, facing me. I choked out, ‘Who is it?’ There was no response, but the shape shifted, and I saw a flash of white, like teeth in a grin.

I fumbled for the deadbolt, but it was already locked. I pressed my eye against the spyhole again, but the hallway was empty. I stepped back, my heart racing. Lena was clutching Ethan, and I saw that the bedroom door was now open, and the lights were on. ‘How?’ I stammered. We stood in silence for a long moment, until Mr. Albright’s voice came through the ceiling, muffled but clear: ‘I see you’ve met my guest.’ We looked up, and the ceiling began to creak, as if something heavy was moving above us.

That weekend, we didn’t sleep. We sat in the living room with all the lights on, refusing to leave. The clicking continued sporadically, and once, I saw the curtain twitch again. In the morning, we packed our bags and left. I never went back to that flat, and I never saw Mr. Albright again. To this day, I avoid frosted glass doors, and every time I hear a latch click, I can’t help but freeze, waiting for the sound to come three times in a row.

Lena and I split up shortly after, and Ethan still flinches when someone pulls a curtain shut. I can’t shake the feeling that something in that flat was waiting for a moment of distraction, to slip through a gap left unguarded. And I still wonder if Mr. Albright’s ‘guest’ was ever truly a guest, or if it was something that had been there all along, clicking its way through the walls of a house too old to keep its secrets.

Sometimes, at night, I lie in my new bed and listen to the house settle. And when I hear a single click, I hold my breath, praying it doesn’t come again. Because I know that some latches, once they are opened, can never be closed again.