The Moisture in the Walls

I never believed in ghosts until we moved into the basement apartment on Harlow Street. The place was cheap, too cheap, and the landlord had a nervous way of avoiding eye contact. My fiancée, June, fell in love with the exposed brick and the sunlight that filtered through the high windows, but I felt a constant dampness, a chill that clung to my skin even in July. We decorated with her grandmother’s old quilts and my collection of vintage radios, trying to make it ours. The trouble started not with a bang, but with a whisper of water. The first sign was a faint, rhythmic dripping behind the bedroom wall, like a leaky pipe that never stopped. I checked the plumbing, found nothing, but the sound persisted, a heartbeat in the plaster.

One night, I was in the kitchen, scrubbing a pan from dinner. The radio played a crackly jazz station, and I hummed along, lost in the suds. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure pass from the bedroom doorway into the kitchen. A woman, I thought, with long black hair that hung straight as a curtain, wearing a pale nightgown. I turned, expecting June, but the kitchen was empty. The air felt thick, and I could smell rain, even though the windows were sealed. My heart hammered as I walked to the bedroom. June was curled under the comforter, surrounded by her sketchbooks, her breath slow and even. I asked her about it the next morning, trying to keep my voice light. She laughed and said, ‘Maybe it’s my Lola. She was my guardian angel. She’s probably checking you out.’ I forced a smile, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I’d seen was no angel.

Days passed, and the occurrences grew. It was never direct, always peripheral. A shadow would shift in the hallway when I passed. The bathroom door would creak open when I was alone. June dismissed it all, attributing it to the old building settling. But then, the moisture began. At first, it was a cold spot in the living room corner. Then, a patch of dampness on the ceiling, spreading like a bruise. I reported it to the landlord, who sent a handyman. The man examined the walls and went pale. ‘There’s something in the pipes,’ he muttered, and refused to elaborate. He left without finishing the job. That night, I woke to find June’s sketchbooks scattered on the floor, and her drawing of our room was covered in a series of stick figures, all standing in a line, facing a single, larger figure with long black hair. She had no memory of drawing it.

The smell of rain became my constant companion. It followed me through the apartment, clinging to my clothes. I started sleeping poorly, dreaming of a woman standing at the foot of the bed, whispering words I couldn’t understand. One afternoon, I was in the bathroom, shaving. The mirror fogged up, even though the water was cold. I wiped the glass, and behind my reflection, I saw her. Black hair obscuring her face, arms limp at her sides, wearing the same pale nightgown. I spun around, but there was no one. When I faced the mirror again, my reflection was normal, but the word ‘MINE’ was written in the condensation. I thought I was losing my mind.

The final straw came on a Sunday. June had gone to visit her mother, and I was alone, trying to fix a squeaky floorboard in the bedroom. I pried up the carpet, and there, beneath the subfloor, I found a small, rusted locket. It was tarnished, but I could make out a faded photograph of a woman with black hair, not unlike the figure I’d seen. I forced open the clasp, and inside was a lock of hair and a miniature diary, the pages wrinkled as if waterlogged. The writing was in a language I didn’t recognize, but the last entry had a date that matched the day we’d moved in. I slipped the locket into my pocket, and immediately, the dripping sound stopped. The dampness in the air began to recede, and for the first time in weeks, the apartment felt dry. But that night, when I closed my eyes, I saw her face clearly, her lips moving, and I understood: she was the original tenant, a woman who had drowned in the bathtub, her body undiscovered for days. She had been waiting, and I had disturbed her rest. Now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was following me, not just in our apartment, but everywhere. I had taken her locket, and in doing so, I had bound her to me. The moisture in the walls was gone, but the cold spot in my chest remained, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I would never truly be alone again.