The Tenant in the Junction Box

In the fall of 2009, I moved into a ground-floor flat in a crumbling Victorian house in the outskirts of a decaying seaside town. My name is Elian, and I had taken the place sight unseen, desperate for cheap rent after my divorce. The landlady, a skeletal woman named Mrs. Gable, had warned me with a brittle smile, ‘Mind the pipes, love. They sing when the tide’s high.’ I laughed it off, thinking it was just local color.

The flat was a warren of small rooms: a narrow hallway that smelled of dust and salt, a living room with a bay window that looked out onto a weed-choked garden, a kitchenette with a chipped enamel sink, and a bedroom that was too large for its own good, with a deep recess in the wall where a wardrobe might have once stood. There was no bathroom, only a tiny water closet with a rust-stained basin, and the plumbing was ancient. I remember the first night, lying in bed, I heard a gurgling from the pipes—a low, rhythmic sound, like something breathing deep in the walls.

I dismissed it as the building’s eccentricities. I had started my life over, working as a night-shift security guard at the town’s shuttered docks, where I spent my hours watching CCTV feeds of empty piers. Every night, I returned to the flat, cooked a simple meal, and sat in the living room, listening to the radio static that was all I could tune in. But soon, the sounds grew more insistent. One night, I was at the sink, washing a dish, when the faucet coughed and a strand of black, greasy hair slithered out. I yanked my hand back, disgusted. The hair was tangled, sticky, and when I pulled it, the pipe groaned in protest.

A week later, I found a small, rusted key on the floor of the living room, under the radiator. It was old, with an ornate bow, and it didn’t fit any lock I could find. I pocketed it, thinking it was junk. That same night, I was brushing my teeth in the little WC, bent over the basin, and I saw a reflection in the tarnished mirror—not mine. A pale face, features blurred, peering over my shoulder. I spun around, but the room was empty. The pipes behind the wall let out a low, mournful hum.

I tried to rationalize it: stress, lack of sleep, the oppressive gloom of the flat. But then I noticed a pattern. Every time the water ran, the air would grow cold, and I would catch a whiff of something like old coins and rotting seaweed. I checked the fuse box in the hallway—an ancient panel with fuses and a tangle of wires—and there, behind it, I found a small, blackened patch on the wall, and a single word scratched into the plaster: ‘WAS.’ It made no sense, but it chilled me to the bone.

One night, after a particularly long shift, I stumbled home and decided to take a bath. The tub in the bedroom’s deep recess had tempted me since I moved in, though it was cracked and stained. I ran the water, and as it filled, the pipes began to sing—a high, thin wail, like a kettle left to boil. I sank into the tepid water, and for a moment, everything was quiet. But then I felt something brush against my ankle. I looked down, and the water was murky, filled with a swirling darkness. I leapt out, dripping, and the water turned clear again. On the ceiling, directly above the tub, a patch of dampness had formed, and it seemed to be spread into the shape of a hand, fingers outstretched, reaching down.

I couldn’t stay. I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, but the door wouldn’t budge. The key turned, the handle shook, but it was as if something held it fast on the other side. I backed away, and the pipes in the walls began to moan, a chorus of grief. Then I remembered the key I had found. I fumbled in my pocket, and it was warm, almost hot. I held it up, and it seemed to be drawn toward the bedroom. I followed it, my heart hammering, to the recess where the bathtub was. There, on the wall beside the tub, I saw a small keyhole I had never noticed before, hidden in the floral wallpaper.

Trembling, I inserted the key. It turned with a click, and the wall paneled section slid open, revealing a narrow, dark chute. A draft of cold, stale air rushed out, carrying a faint whisper: ‘Let me out.’ I stumbled back, and the panel slid shut on its own. The key was gone from my hand. I heard a deep, guttural laugh from within the walls, and then the pipes fell silent.

I ran out of the flat, not stopping until I reached the train station. I didn’t take anything. I never went back. I sometimes think about that flat, that key, and the thing that lived in the junction box, waiting for someone to listen to its song. And I wonder: when the tide comes in, and the pipes begin to sing, is it calling for me? Or is it waiting for the next tenant to turn the key?