The Tenant in Apartment 3B

My second apartment was on the third floor of a converted Victorian house on Marigold Street. The building had a wraparound porch, and the landlady, Mrs. Kowalski, kept potted ferns on the stairs. It was a fair size, with high ceilings and a fireplace that no longer worked, but the kitchen had been recently redone, and the bathroom door, for some reason, refused to close properly. I’d have to shove my shoulder against it to get it to latch, and even then it would creak open on its own. The first few months were peaceful. The radiator clanked, the floorboards settled, and the neighbor below played jazz at a respectful volume. Then, one night, I woke to a crash from the hallway. My boyfriend, Leo, was asleep beside me, and I assumed our cat, Miso, had knocked over the umbrella stand. But when I padded out, the hallway was empty. The umbrella stand was upright. Miso was curled in his basket, one eye cracked open, uninterested. I shrugged it off.

But over the next weeks, the building began to whisper to me in its own language. A child’s giggle would ripple from the stairwell at odd hours. The door to the basement would slam, though the latch had been broken for years. My television would flip channels on its own, the remote’s buttons depressed by invisible fingers. I’d sit on the couch, remote in hand, and watch the numbers change: 3, 11, 5, 2. Leo said I was imagining it, that the remote was cheap. But then the bathroom door would shut on its own, sealing with a click that required my entire body weight to undo. The kitchen lights flickered, strobing the room in a nervous pulse.

Then I saw him. A small figure, maybe the size of a six-year-old but with the proportions of a doll, standing in the sliver of hallway between the living room and kitchen. He was pale, like old porcelain, with dark hollows for eyes. He smiled, too wide, too sharp, and then scurried down the hall, vanishing into the wall. My heart seized. I told Leo, and he laughed, said I was working too much, that I needed a vacation. But he didn’t sleep well that night. I didn’t either.

The incidents escalated. One morning, I found all the cabinet doors in the kitchen ajar. Miso was hissing at a corner. Another night, Leo’s watch, which he swore he’d placed on the nightstand, was found in the bathtub, the glass cracked. I started sleeping with the lights on, but the dark found me anyway. The little figure would appear at the foot of the bed, just a silhouette, and I’d blink, and he’d be gone. Once, I felt a cold hand on my ankle, and I yelped, waking Leo, who saw nothing.

Desperate, I spoke to Mrs. Kowalski. She was a stoic woman with a thick accent, and she listened without interruption. When I finished, she sighed, and her eyes softened. ‘The previous tenant,’ she said, ‘a young woman, had a son. The boy was small for his age. He used to play in that hallway. He died there, actually. A fall. Or so they said. But I know better. The mother moved out soon after, but the boy, he stayed. He likes to play, but he gets lonely. He wants a friend to stay forever. Be careful, dear.’ She handed me a salt shaker. ‘Use this, in a line at the door.’ I thanked her, but my hands were shaking.

The next night, after Leo fell asleep, I drew the line of salt across the bedroom threshold. I watched as the light in the hallway flickered. The shadow of the small figure appeared at the end of the hall, but he stopped at the salt line. He tilted his head, as if puzzled. Then he sat down cross-legged, facing the bedroom door, and waited. He was there when I woke up, and he was there every night after, a silent sentinel. Leo moved out a week later, said he couldn’t take the noises, the cold spots, the feeling of being watched. I stayed. I couldn’t leave him. He was just a boy, lonely, and I was the only one who saw him. I started leaving toys for him in the hallway, and the crashes stopped, but the giggling continued, softer now, almost content. I haven’t slept in weeks, but I’ve never felt more awake. The boy, he doesn’t smile at me anymore. He just watches, and sometimes, he waves. I wave back. It’s the least I can do for my new roommate.