The Second Tenant

My home daycare, Little Sprouts, operated out of the converted parlor of our old Victorian, a house that had creaked and groaned since the day we moved in. The kids, a dozen under the age of five, were used to the house’s noises—the settling floors, the hiss of old pipes, the occasional thump from the attic where we stored holiday decorations. But one Tuesday, after our usual lunch of grilled cheese and apple slices, four-year-old Emily came running into the living room, her face pale, her pigtails bouncing.

“Miss Laura, there’s a ghost in the hall!” she exclaimed, tugging on my sleeve.

I knelt down, thinking she’d seen a shadow or the cat. “A ghost? Honey, there’s no such thing.”

“Yes there is!” she insisted, her voice trembling. “She was a little girl, and she was chasing me! But I ran away, and she gave up.”

I frowned, checking the hallway, but it was empty. “There’s no one there, sweetie. It’s just your imagination.”

But Emily wasn’t convinced. She wandered off toward the playroom, and a moment later, she called out, “Miss Laura, there’s a man out here!”

I followed her into the playroom, half expecting to find a repairman or a parent who’d come early, but the room was empty. “Emily, there’s no one here.”

“He’s right there!” She pointed at the empty corner. “He has a name. It’s Martin.”

The name hit me like a cold draft. Martin. The previous owner, a man who had lived here in the 80s, had died in this very house of a heart attack. We’d bought the place from his widow, and the realtor had mentioned it briefly, but I’d never told the kids. There was no way Emily could have known.

“What does he look like?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“He’s tall, and he’s wearing old clothes. And there’s a lady with him. They were about to kiss.”

A chill ran down my spine. I scanned the playroom, seeing nothing, but a nagging feeling grew in my gut. Over the next few days, I couldn’t shake Emily’s words. She’d never shown any sign of an imaginary friend before, and her description was too specific.

About a year earlier, I’d seen Emily in the playroom, playing with another little girl I didn’t recognize. I’d assumed it was a neighbor’s kid, but when I asked Emily who she was playing with, she had simply said, “My friend.” And the girl was gone by the time I entered. I had brushed it off as a vivid imagination, but now I wondered if it had been real in a way I didn’t understand.

I started to investigate the house’s history, poring over old records and talking to neighbors. I learned that Martin and his wife, Eleanor, had been a quiet couple. They’d had no children, and after Martin’s death, Eleanor had stayed for a while, but she’d eventually moved away. I also discovered that the house had been built on the site of an old orphanage that had burned down in the 1920s, killing several children.

One night, after the kids had gone home, I sat in the playroom, alone. The house was still, and I felt a presence—like someone was watching me. The air grew cold, and I heard a faint giggle, like a child’s. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure, translucent and shimmering.

I turned, but it vanished. I realized then that Emily might have been telling the truth all along. The spirits weren’t just in my imagination—they were real. And they had been here all along, maybe waiting for someone to acknowledge them.

I never told the parents, of course, but I changed how I ran my daycare. I started to acknowledge the unseen guests, leaving out a small chair and some toys for the ghostly children, and speaking kindly to the air when I felt a presence. The kids seemed to sense something too—they’d sometimes wave at empty corners or stop to listen to nothing.

One afternoon, Emily came up to me again. “Miss Laura, the lady says thank you for being nice to them.”

I smiled, a shiver running through me. “You’re welcome, Emily. Tell her they’re welcome anytime.”

And from that day on, the house felt different—less eerie, more peaceful. As if the spirits had found some solace. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the thought that they were still there, watching, waiting for something more. And sometimes, late at night, I’d hear a faint whispering, and I’d wonder if I was just imagining things or if the ghosts of Little Sprouts were still playing in the halls, waiting for the next child to see them.