The Tallyman on the Linoleum

It was the tail end of a sweltering August, and the old cottage—my inheritance from a great-aunt I barely remembered—was finally beginning to feel like mine. I’d spent the morning hauling furniture from the stuffy front parlor (a modern add-on from the ’70s, all cheap paneling and drafty windows) into the original back room, a cool, low-ceilinged space with a flagstone floor. The move made sense: the new room was shaded by an ancient oak, and the breeze from the garden made it bearable. By early afternoon, I was done. I showered, changed into a thin linen shirt, and settled onto the worn chintz sofa, my head buzzing from the heat and the exertion.

I was just reaching for the TV remote when my phone buzzed. My sister, Clara—two years younger and perpetually worried about me living alone ‘in that mausoleum,’ as she called it—was calling to check in. We chatted about her kids, the weather, my new job. I was mid-sentence, describing the miracle of finding a working radiator in the shed, when I glanced up and froze.

Through the doorway that connected the back room to the hallway, and beyond that, through the open door of the front parlor, I saw a man. He was tall, gaunt, with slicked black hair that looked damp, and he was standing in the middle of the front room, looking back at me. He wore a dark suit—old-fashioned, maybe 1940s—with a waistcoat and a tie that was slightly askew. He wasn’t moving, just standing there, hands at his sides.

I blinked, told myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow from the oak outside. But he didn’t vanish. He took a step forward. Then another. The sound of his shoes on the linoleum floor—the cheap, cracked linoleum I’d been meaning to replace—was soft but clear. Click. Click. Click.

‘Hello?’ I said, my voice cracking. Clara’s voice buzzed in my ear, ‘What? Who are you talking to?’ I didn’t answer. I stood up, my knees weak, and took a step toward the doorway. The man matched my movement, stepping closer. I could see his face now: pale, with hollow cheeks and dark, pitiless eyes. His lips were a thin line, and there was a faint smell of damp earth and chlorine.

I backed away, nearly tripping over the sofa. The man kept coming. He crossed the threshold into the back room, his presence seeming to suck the warmth from the air. The smell got stronger. I stumbled into the hallway, my heart hammering. I could hear Clara yelling through the phone, ‘What’s going on? Are you okay? Answer me!’

I ran. I didn’t care that I was fleeing my own house like a coward. I slammed the front door open and raced down the gravel path to the garden gate. The man didn’t follow, but I could feel his gaze like ice on my neck. I stopped at the gate, gasping, and turned. The house stood silent, the front door hanging open. No one in the doorway. But on the front room’s linoleum floor, just inside, I saw a dark, wet footprint. Just one, as if he’d stood there long enough to leave an impression, then vanished.

I didn’t go back inside. I called a neighbor, an old farmer named Mr. Hodge, who came over with a shotgun and a flashlight. We swept the house top to bottom. Nothing. No man, no wet footprints, no evidence except the chill that clung to the rooms like a persistent fog. Mr. Hodge shrugged. ‘Probably a vagrant. He’ll have run off when he saw you leave.’ I wanted to believe him. I did not.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, watching the door, listening. At 3:03 AM, I heard it: the click of shoes on linoleum. Soft, slow, approaching. I grabbed the butcher knife I’d kept under my pillow and crept to the hallway. The sound was coming from the back room. I peered around the corner. The room was bathed in the dim glow of a streetlight, and there he was, standing at the foot of the sofa, his back to me. He was taller than I’d thought, his silhouette blocking out the window. Then he turned his head, slowly, and looked at me over his shoulder. His mouth moved, forming two words I read on his lips: ‘Not yet.’

I screamed. I must have. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, the knife skittering away, the phone in my hand. I dialed Mr. Hodge again, and he stayed with me until dawn, sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a grim expression. When the sun came up, we searched again. Nothing. But on the linoleum, there was a new print—drier, older, but unmistakably a man’s shoe, size eleven. And it was moving: toward the door I’d left open, then back, as if he’d been pacing.

The next week, I did research. I’d never been interested in the cottage’s history, but now I dove into county records, old newspapers, anything. I found it: in 1948, a traveling salesman named Edward Tallyman had been murdered in that house. His body was never found, but his blood—a lot of it—had soaked into the floorboards of the front room. The killer, a disgruntled farmer, had claimed self-defense, but he’d also said something odd: that Tallyman wouldn’t ‘stay dead,’ that he’d seen him standing in the field the next week, just watching.

I don’t know why he chose that time to appear. Maybe it was the heat, the rearranging, some ritual of change that unsettled him. But I know this: I’ve moved all my furniture back to the front parlor. The back room is empty now, except for a single chair I leave by the window, facing away. I can’t sell the house—no one will buy a place with that history. But I’ve learned to live with him. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear the click of his shoes, and I know he’s standing in the doorway. I don’t turn around. I don’t speak. Because the last time I did, he said, ‘Not yet.’ And I’m terrified of what he’s waiting for.

Last week, I brought a woman home. For the first time in months, I felt alive. We were in the front parlor, tangled on the sofa, when I heard it: the click, click, click. Slow, step by step, coming closer. I froze, but she didn’t notice. She laughed, and the sound died in my throat. Then, from the doorway, a voice—dry as dust, barely a whisper: ‘Soon.’ I looked up. He was there, his black eyes fixed on her, his mouth stretched into a smile that was all teeth. I ran. I grabbed her, dragged her out of the house, didn’t stop until we were in my car and driving down the lane. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak. I just drove to a hotel and stayed there for three days. I’m writing this from that hotel. I keep the light on. And I know that someday, when I least expect it, I’ll hear the click of his shoes again, and this time, he won’t say ‘Not yet.’ This time, he’ll say ‘Now.’ And I have a feeling I know what he means.

So this is my story. If you ever see a tall man in a dark suit standing on your linoleum, don’t stop to say hello. Don’t acknowledge him. Just leave. And remember what I learned: he’s not there for you. He’s there for the ones you bring home. And he’s patient.