The Second Floor Tenant

When I was fifteen, my parents’ separation scattered our lives like a dropped deck of cards, and I found myself shipped off to my great-aunt Edna’s boarding house in the dusty town of Murkwood. The house was a skeletal Victorian, three stories of peeling paint and creaking joints, and my room was on the second floor, at the end of a hallway that smelled of mothballs and old secrets. The first few weeks were tolerable. I’d lie in bed, listening to the house settle, telling myself the groans were just wood expanding, the rattling pipes just the wind. But there was one thing I couldn’t ignore—the footsteps.

It started on a Tuesday, around 2 a.m. I was half-asleep, fighting off a migraine, when I heard a measured pacing from the room directly above mine. The attic. Aunt Edna had told me it was sealed off, too rickety for use, but the footsteps were deliberate, like someone walking a patrol. I pulled my pillow over my head and tried to ignore it. But the steps grew heavier, more insistent, and then they stopped right above my bed. I held my breath, waiting. And then, a voice—low, guttural, like gravel scraped through a throat—whispered through the ceiling: ‘You’re in my spot.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I told Aunt Edna about it the next morning, but she just waved a dismissive hand. ‘Old houses talk, dear. You’ll get used to it.’ But I didn’t. The footsteps came every night, always at 2 a.m., always stopping over my bed, and each time, the voice would say something different. ‘Leave the window open.’ ‘Don’t look in the mirror.’ ‘She’s not who you think.’ I started leaving the porch light on, sleeping with my lamp blazing, but it didn’t help. The presence felt closer, as if it was seeping through the attic floorboards and pooling in my room.

One night, I woke to find my bedroom door wide open, though I’d locked it before bed. The hallway beyond was pitch black, and from the darkness came the sound of something dragging across the floor—a heavy, wet scrape, like a body being pulled. I froze, my heart hammering. A shape began to form in the doorway—tall, blacker than the dark, with raw, red eyes that seemed to burn into my soul. It spoke, and its voice was the same one from above. ‘I’ve been here longer than you. This is my house now. And this is my room.’ It pointed a gnarled finger at my bed. ‘You’re in my spot.’

I bolted, pushing past it, and ran down the stairs, not daring to look back. Aunt Edna was already awake, sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea. She looked at me, haggard and pale, and something in her eyes told me she knew more than she’d let on. She sighed and set down her cup. ‘I was hoping you’d never meet him,’ she said. ‘My brother, Arthur. He died in this house forty years ago. Fell from the attic stairs, just broke his neck. But his mind never left. He thinks he’s still the owner, and he doesn’t like company.’ She reached across the table and took my hand. ‘You have to understand, dear. He’s not angry at you. He’s just scared. He’s all alone up there, and he’s been waiting for someone to tell him it’s okay to go.’

That night, I didn’t run. I sat on the floor, facing the attic door, and I talked to the presence. I told it that I was sorry for intruding, that it was a good house, but that it was okay to rest now. I told it that I’d take care of the place, that Aunt Edna needed company, that it didn’t have to be afraid anymore. I kept talking until the footsteps stopped, and the silence felt deeper and colder than before. And then, just as the first light of dawn cracked through the blinds, the attic door creaked open. Not all the way, but just a crack, and a thin, reedy voice, no longer threatening, whispered, ‘Thank you.’

The footsteps never returned. But sometimes, late at night, I feel a presence in my room—not menacing, just watchful. And when I climb the stairs to the attic, I sometimes find the door slightly ajar, as if someone had just stepped out to let me know they’re still there, still keeping an eye on the house they loved. I never told Aunt Edna, but I think she knows. She often hums while dusting the attic banister, and I catch her smiling at the empty landing. I think Arthur found his peace. And maybe, in a way, I did too.