The Tenant in Apartment 2B

In the autumn of 1987, my mother and I left our small coastal town for the sprawling, rain-slicked capital. It was a sixteen-hour bus ride, and I spent most of it watching the landscape change from salt-scoured fields to the gray, towering blocks of the city. My mother, Elena, told everyone it was for her career, a chance at a managerial position. But I knew better. She was fleeing the hollow ache our father left when he walked out, a wound that festered in every silent meal and every unspoken word.

We found a flat in a crumbling, five-story building on the edge of the industrial district. Our unit was 2B, a cramped, dimly lit space that smelled of mildew and regret. The hallway was always cold, the paint peeling like old skin. Across from us, in 2A, lived the Mireles family—a jovial couple with three boisterous kids who filled the corridor with laughter and the smell of frying plantains. They were the only warmth in that place, and they took us in with open arms, often inviting me for dinner when my mother was working late.

Elena threw herself into her job, leaving before dawn and returning well after midnight, sometimes not at all. She was the first to arrive at the office, the last to leave. Even on Sundays, she’d dress in her charcoal suit and disappear into the city, chasing a promotion that never seemed to come. She never spoke of my father, and I learned to stop asking.

At ten, I became the master of our tiny domain. I taught myself to cook—simple rice and beans, eggs, whatever was cheap—and to scrub the linoleum until it gleamed. I followed a strict routine: wake, make instant coffee for myself, sweep, wash dishes, do homework, watch the gray sky from the window, cook dinner, wait for the click of her key in the lock. The silence was my constant companion, punctuated only by the hum of the fridge and the distant wail of sirens.

The first time I noticed it, I thought it was my imagination. A faint scratching, like a mouse behind the wall, but rhythmic. It came from the wall that separated our apartment from the Mireles’. But the Mireles’ were quiet at night, their kids tucked in by nine. I pressed my ear to the cold plaster, but the sound faded.

The next night, it was louder. A slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap, as if someone were drumming their fingers. I knocked back, a childish impulse. The tapping stopped. Then it started again, now three taps, matching mine. I froze. My heart hammered. I told myself it was plumbing, the building settling, anything. But the pattern was too deliberate.

I began to document it in a spiral notebook, a secret log. ‘Night 1: Three taps. Night 2: Five taps, faster. Night 3: A scratching, like nails on a chalkboard, but muffled.’ I never told my mother. She was too exhausted, too preoccupied. And I was afraid she’d laugh, or worse, tell me to stop being silly.

The Mireles’ noticed I was uneasy. The mother, Rosa, asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, just lonely. She hugged me and gave me a slice of sweet bread. That night, the tapping was rhythmic, almost melodic, a lullaby gone wrong. I put my ear to the wall and heard a faint, high-pitched whine, like a baby crying, but distorted.

One evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. The scratching was so loud it seemed to be inside my head. I pressed my palm to the wall, and the tapping stopped. Then I heard a voice, thin and reedy, as if from a great distance. It said my name: ‘Daniel.’ I yanked my hand away, stumbling back. The voice repeated, ‘Daniel, help me.’ It was a child’s voice, but not any I recognized.

I ran to the Mireles’ door and knocked frantically. Rosa answered, her face lined with worry. I babbled about the noise, the voice. She looked at me with pity, then led me inside, sat me on their couch, and gave me a warm cup of cocoa. Their kids were watching TV, oblivious. I felt foolish, but the fear wouldn’t subside. Rosa said, ‘The building has old pipes, maybe gas leaks. You’re imaginative, Daniel. Maybe too much alone.’ I wanted to believe her.

That night, I left my door ajar and listened. The Mireles’ home was quiet, but our apartment sweltered with a strange heat. I heard a faint thud, then the sound of something being dragged across the floor above. Our ceiling creaked. We were on the second floor; there was an attic above us, but no one lived there.

I decided to investigate. The next day, while mother slept in, I borrowed a flashlight and climbed the rickety metal stairs at the end of the hallway. The attic door was padlocked, but the lock was rusted, and with a hard shove, it snapped. The attic was a cavernous, dust-choked space, filled with old furniture, cardboard boxes, and the smell of decay. I played the beam across the floor: there were faint scratches in the dust, like dragging feet. And there, in the corner, a child’s shoe—a small, red Mary Jane, caked with grime.

I picked it up, my hands trembling. It was new, not a relic of decades. A tag inside read ‘M. L.’ I stuffed it in my pocket and hurried back to our flat, my heart racing.

That evening, mother stayed home. She seemed more tired than usual, her face pale. She asked about the shoe, and I told her I found it in the attic. Her eyes widened, and she snatched it from me. ‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded. I told her. She grew quiet, her jaw tight. She said, ‘We’re moving.’ Just like that. ‘We’ll find a new place next week.’

But moving was slow. Her job, the money, everything was a hassle. So for the next few days, I kept to my routine, but now I was obsessed with the shoe. It sat on the kitchen counter, a silent accusation. I flipped it over, looked at the sole—there was dried blood, dark and crusted. I felt sick.

That night, I heard the tapping again, but now it was a desperate pounding. I approached the wall, whispering, ‘What do you want?’ The pounding stopped. A voice, clearer now, said, ‘Let me in.’ I recoiled. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘I’m locked in the wall,’ it said. ‘They put me here. Help me.’

I felt a chill. I had a sudden, vivid memory of a news story from years ago, about a missing girl in this very neighborhood—the Mireles’ daughter had vanished when she was six. They had searched for weeks, never found her. Her name was Maria Luz, the same initials on the shoe.

The Mireles family seemed so kind, but now their smiles felt hollow. Rosa had a particular way of looking at me, as if she knew something. The coughing fits of their youngest child, the skinned knees of the others—they were a cover for something darker.

I steeled myself. That night, I took a hammer and a crowbar, and I approached the wall that separated us from Apartment 2A. My mother was at a late meeting; I was alone. I drove the crowbar into the plaster, feeling it give way with a sickening crunch. Dust and mold filled the air. I widened the hole, peering into the dark cavity between the walls. There, crumpled in a fetal position, was a small skeleton, wearing a tattered, faded dress and one red shoe. The other shoe matched the one in my pocket.

I stumbled back, bile rising. But before I could scream, I heard a sound from the other side—a faint, gleeful giggle. I turned to see Rosa standing in the doorway of my apartment, her face lit by the dim bulb, her eyes hollow. ‘You found her,’ she said, her voice eerily calm. ‘The landlord said we had to keep quiet. She wouldn’t stop crying. So we put her in the wall.’ She smiled, showing teeth too white for such darkness.

I fled. I ran down the stairs, bursting into the night, my lungs burning. I never looked back. I didn’t stop running until the police station’s lights were in front of me. They didn’t believe me at first, but when they found the remains and the confession from Rosa, they did.

The Mireles were arrested. My mother and I moved to a different city, far away. But even now, years later, in our new home, I sometimes hear a faint tapping from the walls. And when I press my ear to the plaster, I hear a small voice, saying, ‘Daniel, help me.’ But I am not brave anymore. I am just a man haunted by an unfinished cry for help.