The Tenant Above

Evelyn and I thought we had found our perfect first home. The duplex was charming, tucked away in the quiet outskirts of Maple Hollow, with a big oak tree shading the back porch and a fireplace that promised cozy winters. We were on the upper floor, and below us lived an elderly woman named Mrs. Gable, who we rarely saw but who seemed kind enough. Our landlord, Mr. Heston, was a brisk man with spectacles and a clipboard, and he warned us that the building was old and had its quirks. We didn’t mind. It was our sanctuary.

A month in, we noticed the scraping. It came from above, even though we were on the top floor. At first, I thought it was branches against the roof. But it was rhythmic, like something dragging across the ceiling, from the bedroom to the living room and back. Evelyn dismissed it as the house settling, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was deliberate. The sound would stop whenever we went silent, as if it was listening.

Then the figurines started moving. I had a small collection of ceramic owls on the mantel, inherited from my grandmother. One night, I found them all facing the bedroom door, not the fireplace. I laughed it off, blaming Evelyn. She swore she hadn’t touched them. The next day, they were in a perfect line on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I put them back, but my hands shook. Evelyn suggested we talk to Mr. Heston.

Mr. Heston listened with a tight mouth. He said, ‘Ah, that would be the tenant above.’ I told him there was no tenant above. He stared at me, then at Evelyn. ‘There’s a crawlspace between the top floor and the roof,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, things get in. Raccoons, maybe.’ But his eyes didn’t look like he believed that. He gave us a number for a pest control. We took it, but we never called.

That night, the scratching was louder. It was in the walls now. I lay awake, listening to it travel. It paused at the headboard of our bed. I felt a cold draft, a breath on my neck. I turned, but nothing. Evelyn was asleep, I thought. But then I saw her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. We didn’t speak. We just held each other until dawn.

A week later, I found the thermostat. It was in the hallway, and it had a small lever for ‘fan’ and ‘auto’. But there was a third position, unmarked, that I hadn’t noticed. I pushed it out of curiosity. The house went dead silent. No hum, no creak. Then from the crawlspace, a voice, clear and close, said, ‘Thank you.’ I nearly jumped out of my skin. I yanked the lever back. The house came alive with normal sounds again, but now I knew. We weren’t alone.

We tried to leave. We packed our bags, but as we reached the front door, all the locks engaged by themselves. The windows slammed shut. The lights flickered. A low chuckle echoed from the vents. We were trapped. The voice, now a whisper, drifted from the bedroom: ‘You can’t leave. Not yet. I’ve been waiting for someone to hear me.’

Days passed. We tried breaking windows, but they wouldn’t budge. We tried calling out, but the phone lines were dead. The scratching returned, more frantic, like something trying to claw through the ceiling. We discovered a loose panel in the closet, leading to the crawlspace. Against our better judgment, we opened it. The space was dark, filled with insulation, and in the center, a small wooden box. Inside, a photograph of a woman with hollow eyes, and a note: ‘She was my wife. She thought she could leave. Now she stays.’

The whispering continued, growing bolder. It spoke our names in the dark. It told us secrets we had never shared. It promised to let us go if we ‘released’ it. We didn’t know what that meant. We were paralyzed with fear, barely eating, barely sleeping. The house creaked and groaned around us, and in the quiet moments, we could hear a faint sobbing from above.

Then, one night, the doorbell rang. We hadn’t heard a sound from outside in days. I crept to the peephole. It was Mrs. Gable, her face pale, her eyes wild. ‘You need to get out,’ she hissed. ‘It’s not a tenant. It’s her. The one who died here. She won’t let anyone live above her.’ I shouted that we couldn’t. She nodded, pressed her hand to the door, and said, ‘You have to burn it. The box. It’s her anchor.’

We rushed to the closet, but the box was gone. The scratching intensified, the house shook. The voice screamed, ‘NO!’ The panel slammed shut. Evelyn grabbed my arm. ‘It’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘The crawling. It’s coming down.’ We ran to the bathroom, barricaded ourselves in. The walls around us began to swell and pulse, like something was moving through them. The mirror fogged up, and through the condensation, words appeared: ‘You’re mine now.’

Desperate, I remembered the thermostat. I crawled out, ignoring the clawing feeling on my legs. I reached the hallway, flipped the lever to that third position. The house shuddered, and the voice pleaded, ‘Don’t.’ But I held it. The tremors grew violent. The ceiling cracked, and a cold wind blew down. I let go only when the house fell silent.

It was over. The locks released, the door swung open. Mrs. Gable stood there, shaking. ‘You did it,’ she said. ‘You trapped her again.’ We walked out into the moonlight, clutching each other. Behind us, the house stood quiet, but I swear I saw a silhouette in the attic window, watching. We never went back. But to this day, when I hear scratching above me, I think of the thermostat, and I wonder who else might be listening.