The Tenant in the Walls

My name is Lena, and I’m fifteen. My parents split when I was nine, and since then, I’ve spent one weekend a month at my dad’s place. He lives with his girlfriend, Mira, in a top-floor apartment in an old building that smells of dust and boiled cabbage. My bedroom is their living room, which they’ve set up with a pull-out couch and a desk shoved against the wall. It’s a weird room. The first time I slept there, I felt a heavy presence, like something was sitting on my chest, watching me. I was terrified, but I’m not a kid anymore. I sat up and said, ‘I have the right to be here. I’m the daughter of the man who owns this apartment.’ And just like that, the feeling vanished. But it never really left. It’s like a cold spot in the air, or a whisper you catch out of the corner of your ear.

The sounds started the second night. I was up late, scrolling through my phone because I couldn’t sleep. The clock on the wall ticked past 2 AM, and then I heard it: a man’s voice, low and rough, singing an old hymn. The melody was familiar, like something from a church service, but the words were slurred, almost like he was drunk or grieving. I held my breath, and the singing stopped. But then there were other noises. Footsteps that seemed to come from inside the wall behind the sofa. A creaking like someone slowly opening a door. And sometimes, late at night, the sound of a TV turned up too loud, muffled but distinct, coming from the apartment below. The people down there are elderly, and I figured they were hard of hearing, but the voices didn’t sound like them. They sounded like a talk show, but the laughter was wrong, too sharp, and the applause sounded like static.

I tried to ignore it. I put on headphones, but the sounds cut through. I started to think that maybe the apartment below was not occupied, because I never saw the couple leave. One day, I mentioned it to Dad, trying to sound casual. He frowned and said, ‘Below? That’s old Mr. Brandt’s place, but he’s been dead for years. No one lives there.’ My blood ran cold. I asked about the couple, and he said, ‘There is no couple. It’s just us and the empty flats.’ I wanted to ask more, but he changed the subject, and Mira gave me a strange look, like she knew something she wasn’t telling.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening. At 3:15, I heard a sound that made me sit up. It was a scraping, like something heavy being dragged across the floor, right above me. But we were on the top floor. There was no above. Unless it was on the roof. I got up and crept to the window. The street below was empty, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. Then I saw a shape in the glass. A reflection of a man standing behind me. He was tall, thin, with a face that was too pale, and his mouth was open, singing silent lyrics. I spun around, but there was nothing. The room was empty. My heart hammered. I whispered, ‘Who are you?’ And the feeling of the first night returned, heavier, pressing down on me. A voice, so faint I almost missed it, said, ‘I was here first.’

I ran to the door, but it was locked. I rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I shouted for Dad, but no sound came out. The clock on the wall began to tick faster, and the walls seemed to breathe. The song started again, clearer now, and I recognized it. It was ‘Abide with Me.’ And in that moment, I knew I was not alone.

The next morning, Dad found me huddled in the corner, shaking. He asked what happened, but I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t. Instead, I asked about the history of the building. He said it was built in the 1920s, and there had been a fire in the 1960s. Several tenants died. One was a man who used to sing in the church choir. He lived alone, and his apartment was right below ours. The fire started in his flat. They never found his body, but they found a burned Bible with a hymn marked. My blood froze. I looked at the floor, and beneath the carpet, I saw a charred mark, shaped like a cross.

That afternoon, I went down to the apartment below. The door was sealed with a rusty lock, but it gave way when I pushed. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and ash. The walls were blackened, and that same hymn was scrawled in char on the wall: ‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide.’ I left, but I couldn’t stop thinking. The presence in our living room was not the man from downstairs. It was the building itself, or perhaps the man was still there, trapped.

Now, every night, I hear him. He sings, and the walls echo. I’ve started to sing back, softly, a different hymn. ‘Amazing Grace.’ And the moment I do, the air becomes still. A cold draft passes by me, and I swear I see a blur in the corner. Last night, I noticed a new mark on the wall, next to my bed. It was a small cross, and underneath, the words ‘Thank you.’ I don’t feel afraid anymore. I feel like I’ve given him peace. But tonight, the clock is ticking, and I hear a new sound: a child crying, from just behind the wall. I place my hand on the wall, and it feels warm. I say, ‘I’m here.’ And the crying stops.

The apartment below is empty, but the walls are full. I don’t know what else is in there. But I think I have to find out.