The Second Tenant

Maren and I moved into our dream home in late autumn, a narrow Victorian in the historic district of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The place was charming, with creaking floorboards and a bay window that caught the afternoon sun. We’d been there barely three months when we learned I was pregnant. The spare room, which we’d painted a soft butter yellow, was meant to be the nursery.

Last weekend, my cousin Eliza and her husband came to stay. They took the guest room, and we had a lovely time—wine, board games, and laughter that echoed off the old walls. They left Sunday morning, and by evening, Maren and I were curled on the couch, watching a documentary.

At exactly 11:07 PM, a sound cut through the quiet. It wasn’t loud; it was a thin, reedy beep, like a cricket with a sore throat. It came from upstairs, from the nursery. We exchanged a glance, and Maren went to investigate. I followed, my heart tapping a nervous rhythm.

The nursery door was ajar. Inside, the smoke detector on the ceiling was blinking a steady red. But the sound wasn’t the usual shrill alarm. It was a pattern—three short beeps, a pause, then two longer ones. It repeated, monotonous, like a coded message.

Maren grabbed a chair, stood on it, and pressed the test button. The beeping stopped. He shrugged. ‘Probably a glitch.’ But as he stepped down, the sound started again, slightly different: two beeps, pause, three beeps. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft.

We checked the wiring, swapped the battery (even though it was hardwired), and even called the electrician the next day. He found nothing wrong. ‘Could be interference,’ he said, but his eyes lingered on the room’s far corner. The beeping continued, sporadic, always at odd hours.

A week later, I was in the nursery, painting a mural of a moon and stars. The beeping started again, and this time I tried to record it on my phone. When I played it back, I heard something else. Beneath the beeps, a faint, raspy voice. It said, ‘Is it time?’

I dropped the phone. The room felt suddenly cold, and the air smelled faintly of dust and mothballs. I looked around, but there was no one. Later, I told Maren. He laughed it off, but I saw the unease in his eyes.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening. At 3:33 AM, the beeping started, and I got up. This time, I crept into the nursery, not turning on the light. The red light blinked, and the beeping took on a rhythm that felt almost like speech. I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’

The beeping stopped. Then, from the speaker, a soft, childlike voice said, ‘You’re in my room.’

I screamed. Maren came running, but by then, the room was silent. He held me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. We decided to sleep in the living room for the rest of the week.

The next day, I did some research. I learned our house was built in 1887, and the previous owner was an elderly woman who had died there. But that wasn’t all. The woman had a daughter, a little girl who died of scarlet fever in 1895, in what would have been her bedroom. The very room we were preparing for our baby.

I began to hear the beeping more frequently. Sometimes it would mimic a heartbeat, other times it would sync with my own pulse. I knew it was trying to communicate. One night, I sat in the nursery, alone, and asked, ‘What do you want?’

The smoke detector gave a single, clear chime. Then, the voice, now clearer, said, ‘I want a friend. I’ve been alone for so long.’

I felt a wave of pity, but also terror. I told Maren that we needed to have the house blessed. He agreed, but the priest found nothing. He said the house felt ‘occupied’ but not by a malicious spirit. ‘It’s a lost soul,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t mean harm, but she’s confused.’

I couldn’t sleep in that house anymore. We stayed at a hotel, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was following me. The beeping even came through my phone’s speaker during a call with my mother.

When we returned, the nursery door was locked from the inside. We broke in, and the room was freezing. The smoke detector was dangling from its wires, spinning slowly. On the wall, where I’d painted the moon, someone had scratched a message in the plaster: ‘She’s coming.’

I felt a cold hand on my belly. And then, a voice, not from the speaker but right beside my ear, whispered, ‘Not yours.’

I ran. I ran out of that room, down the stairs, and into the street. Maren found me sobbing. We decided we would move, whatever it took. But as we stood there, looking up at the house, every smoke detector in the building went off at once, screaming in that new pattern. And in the nursery window, I saw the silhouette of a small girl, waving.

We moved out the next week. But the beeping follows me. Last night, I woke to find Maren standing over me, his eyes wide, his lips moving without sound. I leaned in, and he whispered, ‘She says she knows where we live now.’

I looked at the baby monitor, which we’d packed ourselves. It was on, and from the tiny speaker came a soft, rhythmic beep. Three short, pause, two long. Over and over. And then, a child’s laugh.