The Tenant in 2B

The first time I noticed it, I was unpacking a box of kitchen utensils in my new apartment in the old mill town of Ashford. The complex was a row of four connected units, each with a downstairs living area and an upstairs bedroom, all sharing a common wall. My unit was the second from the left, number 2B. I had moved in a week before the wedding, eager to set up our first home. During the week, it was just me and my soon-to-be husband’s weekend visits. I had minimal furniture: a twin bed, a dresser, a desk with a TV and alarm clock upstairs, and a small entertainment center with another TV downstairs.

At first, the solitude was peaceful. But by the fourth night, I began to feel an uncomfortable sense of being watched. I grew up in a house that had its share of odd occurrences—a creaking floorboard, a cold spot in the hall—but nothing ever felt malevolent. I was never afraid. This was different. The unease was a constant pressure, like a thumb pressing between my shoulder blades. I chalked it up to pre-wedding jitters and the unfamiliarity of the place. I would soon learn how wrong I was.

It started with small things. My alarm clock, which I always set for 6:00 AM, would be off by a few minutes in the morning, as if someone had nudged it during the night. The TV downstairs would be on a different channel than I left it. I would find my toothbrush in the shower caddy instead of the cup by the sink. I tried to rationalize: maybe I was sleepwalking, or the old wiring was causing glitches. But deep down, I knew someone else was in the apartment with me.

One evening, about two weeks in, I was sitting on the floor in the living room, eating takeout, when I heard a soft thud from upstairs. I froze, listening. The sound came again—a rhythmic thumping, like footsteps, but slow and deliberate. I set down my fork and climbed the stairs, my heart hammering. The bedroom was empty. The twin bed was neatly made, the dresser in place, and the desk with its cluttered top. But the alarm clock on the desk read 3:00 AM, even though it was only 8 PM. I reached to adjust it, and the numbers flickered to 3:01. I felt a cold draft on my neck, as if someone had breathed on me. I spun around, but there was no one.

That night, I pulled the covers up to my chin and lay rigid in the dark. The feeling of being watched was intense, almost suffocating. I tried to sleep, but every creak of the building made me gasp. At some point, I must have dozed off, because I woke to the sound of a woman’s voice whispering my name. It was not my fiancé’s voice; it was soft and sibilant, like the hiss of a radiator. I sat up, and the room was still. My name was whispered again, from the corner near the closet. I flicked on the lamp, but the bulb burned out with a pop, plunging me back into darkness. I scrambled for the phone on the desk, but the line was dead.

I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom with the door locked and the light on, sitting on the edge of the tub, shivering. In the morning, I called my fiancé, but he dismissed it as stress. I tried to ignore it during the day, but the presence grew stronger. I began to see a shadowy figure from the corner of my eye—a tall, gaunt shape with long arms—always just out of sight. When I turned, it was gone. I started leaving every light in the apartment on, even while I slept, but the darkness seemed to seep from the walls.

One night, about a week before the wedding, I was closing the curtains in the living room when I saw a reflection in the window. It was not my own. There was a woman behind me, her face pale and hollow-eyed, her hair hanging in ropes. I spun around, but the room was empty. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I screamed. I ran upstairs and locked myself in the closet, pulling clothes around me like a barrier. I could hear footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy. The closet door rattled. I held my breath, and then the rattling stopped. I waited for hours, but nothing else happened. When I finally emerged at dawn, the apartment was still, but the air was thick with the scent of decay.

I didn’t tell my fiancé the full extent of what was happening. He thought I was just nervous about the wedding. But I couldn’t stay in that apartment alone anymore. I started sleeping at my parents’ house, but I still had to go back to pack my things. During one last visit, I found an old photograph in a desk drawer, hidden under some papers. It was a photo of a woman in her twenties, with the same pale face I had seen in the reflection. On the back was written, in a faded script, ‘I will wait for you, as I always have.’ I realized then that the apartment was not haunted by an entity that merely watched; it was a place that held onto its previous tenant, a woman who had died there, waiting for someone to take her place.

I moved out that day, leaving most of my furniture behind. My fiancé thought I was being ridiculous, but I didn’t care. We got married and found a new place. I never told him the full story, but I kept the photograph. Sometimes, at night, I look at it, and the woman’s eyes seem to follow me. I wonder if she found a new tenant, and I pray she doesn’t come looking for me. But I know her whisper is still there, somewhere, waiting.