The Lodger in the Walls

Three months had passed since I’d first heard those faint, whispering voices in the old apartment on Maplethorpe Street. I’d chalked it up to a drafty building, a trick of the mind, or perhaps the result of too much cheap wine with my friends. But when I finally met up with Lena and Marcus again at a quiet café, the memory crept back like a cold draft under a door.

I brought it up, diffidently at first, expecting them to laugh it off or share similar strange tales. Instead, Lena shrugged, her gaze drifting to the steam curling from her latte. ‘Oh, that’s just Albert,’ she said, as if discussing a peculiar neighbor. ‘He’s been in the apartment since we moved in.’

I blinked. ‘Albert?’

Marcus, who had been silent, nodded. ‘You see him out of the corner of your eye, mostly. A tall figure, like a priest or something, in a dark robe. Never facing you directly. And sometimes, he throws things around. A book, a coffee mug. Nothing too dramatic.’

A chill that had nothing to do with the café’s air conditioning traced down my spine. ‘And you’re not… worried?’ I asked, my voice a little thin.

Lena smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘He’s been here since the boarding house days, back when it was full of factory workers. We figured he’s just a leftover, a lodger. He’s not harmful. Just likes to remind us he’s there.’

I tried to match their calm, but inside, a question gnawed at me. Why did Albert only show himself to Marcus? Why did the whispers I’d heard feel so different, more like desperate pleas than harmless mischief? And most troubling: why did Marcus suddenly seem older, with dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept properly in months?

Later that week, I found an excuse to visit their apartment. I told myself I was checking on their wellbeing, but really, I needed to see for myself. The hallway smelled of dust and old wood, and as I climbed the creaking stairs, I felt an oppressive weight, as if the building itself were pressing in on me.

Lena let me in with a smile, but the apartment was dim, the curtains drawn. Marcus was in the living room, staring at a patch of wall near the radiator. When he noticed me, he gave a tired wave but didn’t quite meet my gaze.

We chatted about mundane things, but my attention kept drifting to that wall. The wallpaper was old, patterned with faded roses, and in the center was a dark stain, roughly the size of a human hand. I didn’t mention it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Albert was there, watching, just out of sight.

Suddenly, a crash from the kitchen made me jump. Lena sighed and went to pick up a fallen pan. ‘He does that,’ she said, without looking back.

I decided I’d had enough. I made my excuses and left, but as I reached the stairwell, I heard Marcus’s voice, low and urgent, as if he were talking to someone. I paused, straining to listen.

‘…can’t keep this up, Albert. You have to let me go.’

His words were followed by a silence so deep it felt like a held breath. Then, a whisper, barely audible, but unmistakably there, answered back.

‘Soon.’

I stumbled down the stairs, my heart hammering. The next day, I tried to call Lena, but there was no answer. I called Marcus’s work, but they said he hadn’t shown up in days. Panic set in, cold and gripping.

I drove to Maplethorpe Street, the sky gray and heavy with impending rain. The apartment building loomed, its windows like empty eyes. Inside, the hallway was eerily quiet, but from behind my friends’ door, I could hear a rhythmic thumping, like something being knocked against the floor.

I knocked, but no one came. I tried the knob; it turned freely. I pushed the door open, and a cold draft hit me. The living room was empty, but the dark stain on the wall had grown, spreading like a blooming bruise. The thumping came from the bedroom.

I crept closer, my breath fogging in the chill. The door was ajar. I peered in, and my blood ran cold. Marcus was on his knees in the center of the room, his head bowed, facing the window. Standing behind him, tall and emaciated, was a figure in a tattered black robe. Its face was obscured, but I could see the faint outline of a skeletal jaw.

Albert turned his head, and I felt his gaze pass over me, but not see me. Then he leaned down, and his mouth brushed Marcus’s ear. I couldn’t hear the words, but Marcus shuddered, and a low moan escaped him.

I backed away, but my heel caught on the doorframe, and I stumbled. The noise startled Albert, and for a moment, our eyes met. In that instant, I saw not anger, but a profound sadness, and a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Then Marcus fell forward, and a dark liquid leaked from him, pooling on the floor. Albert dissolved, like smoke dissipating in the air, leaving only the stain on the wall, now a deep, wet crimson.

I don’t know how I made it out of that building. I don’t remember the drive home. All I remember is the image of Marcus, lifeless, and the fading echo of the whisper that had haunted me all along. It was never a phantom. It was a warning.

Now, as I sit here, typing this account, I notice a faint sound at the edge of my hearing. A rustling, like fabric dragging across the floor. And when I glance at the mirror across the room, just for a fraction of a second, I think I see a tall, dark figure standing behind me.

But when I turn, there’s nothing there. Just the silence, and the faint, lingering scent of old wood and dust. And he whispers, ‘Soon.’