The Tenant in the Attic

I moved into the old Harrow House in late autumn, drawn by the cheap rent and the promise of solitude. My room was on the third floor, a converted attic with sloped ceilings and a single dormer window. The door at the foot of my bed, to the right, was the only entrance. My cat, Mister Whiskers, always curled up between my legs, a warm lump of fur that anchored me to sleep.

One night, I woke with a start, my heart thumping for no reason. The room was dark, but the streetlamp outside cast a pale glow through the thin curtains. I heard a creak, then the unmistakable sound of my door handle turning. The door swung open slowly, revealing a figure outlined in the dim light. It was a black shape, humanoid, with long hair that seemed to float as if underwater. Its eyes were two white orbs, empty and fixed on me. In its arms, it cradled Mister Whiskers, who was limp and silent.

The figure stepped forward, its movements silent, and gently placed my cat between my legs, exactly where he always slept. Then it straightened, turned, and walked out, pulling the door shut with a soft click that echoed in the stillness. But there was no sound of footsteps down the stairs. No creaking floorboards. Nothing. Just that click.

I lay frozen, staring at Mister Whiskers, who blinked up at me as if nothing had happened. My mind raced. My parents lived on the second floor, and my brother was away at college. If it were one of them, I’d have heard them on the stairs. The house was old, every step groaned. But after the door clicked, there was absolute silence. I didn’t even hear the door to the second-floor hallway open.

I tried to convince myself it was a sleep paralysis hallucination. But the next morning, I found the door slightly ajar, though I always closed it before sleeping. And Mister Whiskers was acting strange, hissing at the attic staircase for days. I asked the landlord if there was anyone else in the building. He gave me a strange look and said, ‘No, just you and your folks. But sometimes tenants mention a lady in a long dress, and her cat.’

A week later, I woke again to the same sensation. This time, the figure stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me with those white eyes. It pointed a long finger at Mister Whiskers, then at me, and mouthed words I couldn’t hear. I screamed, but no sound came out. The figure dissolved into the darkness, and the door slammed shut on its own. I rushed to turn on the light, but the bulb flickered and died.

I moved out the next week, but Mister Whiskers refused to leave the attic. He’d sit at the top of the stairs, staring at the door, purring. I had to carry him out, scratching and yowling. The landlord later told me that the previous tenant, an old woman, had died in that attic, and her cat had been buried at the base of the stairs. They never found the cat’s body. Some say it still roams, waiting for a new owner to cradle.

I still have nightmares of those white eyes and the soft click of the door. And sometimes, I feel a cold draft on my legs, and I swear I hear a faint meow from the corner of the room, even though Mister Whiskers is long gone.