The Lathe’s Lament

My apartment came with a ghost, though the landlord, Mrs. Gable, preferred the term ‘resident spirit.’ It was her late husband, Arthur, a retired engineer who’d spent his final years building intricate wooden puzzles in the basement workshop. I’d moved into the ground-floor unit of their sprawling Victorian, drawn by the high ceilings and the promise of cheap rent. The paranormal investigator, a sharp-eyed woman named Dr. Reyes, confirmed what I’d suspected: Arthur lingered, though she called him ‘benign but mischievous.’

At first, it was almost charming. Tools would vanish from my toolbox only to reappear neatly arranged on the kitchen counter. A faint smell of sawdust would drift through the hallway at odd hours. The most persistent quirk involved the small oak bench he’d crafted, which sat by the front door. Every time I brushed against it, the wood radiated a gentle, almost feverish warmth, as if the grain itself remembered a body that no longer sat there. I grew used to it, even found a strange comfort in the presence of a craftsman who couldn’t let go.

The trouble began on the eve of a minor holiday, when I decided to give the apartment a deep clean. I was scrubbing the baseboards in the living room when I noticed a fine layer of sawdust coating the floor near the wall. I’d swept earlier, so this was new. I vacuumed it up, but within the hour, it returned, forming a thin, precise line that stretched from the radiator to the doorway. I followed the trail, and it led to the basement door. I’d never been down there; Mrs. Gable had said it was too cluttered, but the key hung on a hook by the stairs.

Curiosity won. I unlocked the door and descended into a musty, half-finished cellar. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling, and the air was thick with the smell of old oil and varnish. In the corner, under a tarp, sat Arthur’s lathe—a massive, antique machine with a belt-driven motor. It was covered in dust, but the bed gleamed as if recently polished. A half-finished project, a wooden bowl, sat clamped in the chuck, its surface smooth but unvarnished. I reached out to touch it, and the moment my fingers made contact, the lathe whirred to life, the motor spinning the bowl with a violent hum. I stumbled back, but the machine kept turning, and the bowl began to deform, the wood warping and cracking as if gripped by an invisible hand.

I ran upstairs, heart pounding. The warm bench felt cold when I passed it. That night, I couldn’t sleep. From below, I heard rhythmic thumping, like a fist striking wood, and the high-pitched whine of the lathe. I called Mrs. Gable, who lived in the unit above, but she said her phone was dead and hadn’t heard a thing. When I finally dozed off, I dreamed of Arthur—a tall, gaunt man with sawdust in his thinning hair. He was standing at the lathe, but instead of wood, he was carving a face into a block of oak. It was my face. He looked up, his eyes hollow, and said, ‘You shouldn’t have touched my work.’

The next morning, I found the basement door ajar. The lathe was silent, but on the workbench sat a new piece: a wooden figurine, about a foot tall, that bore an uncanny resemblance to me. It was crude but detailed, down to the scar on my chin and the way I tucked my hair behind my ear. The wood was still warm. I felt a shudder run down my spine. I called Dr. Reyes, but she was out of town and told me to ‘ride it out’—Arthur was harmless, she insisted.

But the figurine was just the beginning. Each day, I found new carvings: a miniature of my cat, a replica of my favorite mug, even a tiny book with the same title as the one I had lying on my nightstand. They appeared in the strangest places—inside my pillowcase, in my shoe, once in the fridge. The sawdust became a constant, coating every surface no matter how often I cleaned. The warm bench grew hotter, and when I sat on it, I felt a searing pain, as if the wood were branding me.

I tried to move out, but Mrs. Gable refused to release me from the lease, saying the apartment was ‘just quirky.’ I started sleeping with the lights on, but the figurines kept coming. Then, one evening, as I was about to call Dr. Reyes again, I heard the lathe start up downstairs. This time, it was accompanied by a low, guttural humming, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into my bones. I crept to the top of the basement stairs and peeked down. The lathe was spinning, but no one was there. The bowl I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by a block of wood that was slowly taking shape. I watched, transfixed, as the wood twisted and curled, forming a face—not mine this time, but Arthur’s. His eyes were closed, his mouth open in a silent scream. The lathe stopped abruptly, and the workshop fell silent.

I fled to the bathroom and locked the door. The warmth of the bench, the clattering dishes, the lost keys—all the harmless tricks now felt like warnings. I looked in the mirror and saw sawdust in my hair. I rubbed it away, but it kept coming back, as if the air itself were full of it. Then I noticed the wooden figurine of me was sitting on the edge of the sink, its face contorted into a grin. I grabbed it and hurled it against the wall, but it didn’t break. It just lay there, unharmed, and the grin seemed to widen.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the living room, watching the bench. It wasn’t warm anymore—it was cold, but the wood appeared darker, almost charred. At precisely 3 a.m., the lathe whirred to life again, this time so loudly that the windows rattled. I covered my ears, but the sound drilled into my skull. Then, from the basement, I heard a rhythmic tapping, like footsteps climbing the stairs. The tapping stopped at the door. I could see a faint shadow under it, a silhouette that was too tall, too thin. A hand. It was a hand made of wood, with fingers like chisels, and it reached through the gap in the door, scraping against the frame.

I backed into the corner, clutching a kitchen knife, but the hand retreated. Then the door slowly creaked open. Arthur stood there, but he wasn’t the man from my dreams—he was a scarecrow of splinters and bark, with gears and cogs embedded in his chest, turning slowly. He opened his mouth, and sawdust poured out. He said, ‘You’ve disturbed my work. Now you must join the collection.’

The room went dark. I felt a terrible warmth envelop me, as if I were being pressed against the bench. I struggled, but invisible hands held me down. The last thing I saw was the wooden figurine of me, now come to life, walking toward me with a chisel raised. When I woke, I was on the basement floor, surrounded by carvings—dozens of them, each one a person, each one frozen in terror. The lathe was silent, but the bowl I’d seen earlier was now complete, and inside it was a tiny, wooden heart, still beating.

I ran out of the house, but I couldn’t leave the block. My feet kept circling back to the apartment. Mrs. Gable saw me and smiled. ‘Arthur’s been waiting for an apprentice,’ she said. ‘You’ll be perfect.’ Now, I sit in this room, writing this account. The bench is warm again. And in the basement, the lathe is always humming, waiting for my hands to touch it and begin my own first piece.