The Tenant of Ash Lane

In the autumn of 2019, I moved to the town of Bellamy Falls for a job at the local paper mill. The town was nestled in a valley, surrounded by dense pine forests that seemed to swallow the light. I found a furnished basement apartment in an old Victorian house on Ash Lane. The landlady, Mrs. Kowalski, was a plump, kind woman in her sixties who reminded me of my grandmother. She offered me tea and cookies on the first day, and her warmth made the musty smell of the place almost bearable.

The apartment itself was a single large room with a small kitchenette and a bathroom. The windows were high up, near the ceiling, so the only natural light came from a narrow strip of glass that looked out onto the sidewalk. The walls were painted a sickly yellow, and the floorboards creaked underfoot. It wasn’t ideal, but it was cheap, and I was too tired to look elsewhere.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. My days were spent at the mill, operating the noisy machinery, and my nights were spent in the quiet of my basement. But soon, I began to notice small things. I would find my coffee mug in a different spot in the morning, even though I was sure I had left it by the sink. The radio would turn on by itself in the middle of the night, playing static that sounded almost like whispers. I chalked it up to faulty wiring and an overactive imagination.

One evening, as I was reading on my bed, I heard a soft tapping on the window. It was rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I looked up, but the window was too high to see anything. The tapping continued for a few minutes, then stopped. I shrugged it off, assuming it was a branch scraping against the glass, though the nearest tree was a good ten feet away.

As the weeks went by, the incidents became more frequent and more unsettling. I would find my toothbrush moved to the bathroom cabinet, even though I always left it on the sink. The lights would flicker when I walked into a room. And once, when I was in the shower, I could have sworn I heard a voice say my name, a low, guttural whisper that seemed to come from inside the wall.

I tried to convince myself it was just the old house settling, but a gnawing fear began to take root. I started to feel like I was being watched, even when I was alone. I would turn around suddenly, expecting to see someone behind me, but there was never anyone there.

One night, I was jolted awake by a loud crash from the kitchen. I rushed in to find a picture frame that had been hanging on the wall lying on the floor, the glass shattered. The picture was of a family in sepia tones, and the faces had been scratched out with something sharp. A cold dread washed over me. I knew I had not done this. I called Mrs. Kowalski the next morning, and she came down with a worried expression. She looked at the broken frame and sighed. ‘That was my husband’s family,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I had forgotten it was still down here.’ She took the picture and left, but I saw her cross herself before she walked up the stairs.

That day, I decided to research the history of the house. I went to the local library and found an old newspaper article from the 1920s. The house had been owned by a doctor named Samuel Vance, who had a small practice in the front room. He was known for his unorthodox methods, and there were rumors that he performed illegal procedures on women who wanted to do away with unwanted pregnancies. He was arrested in 1931, but he died in prison before his trial. The article mentioned that his wife had died under mysterious circumstances a year before his arrest.

My blood ran cold. I thought about the scratches on the faces in the photograph and the feeling of being watched. I began to wonder if the ghost of Dr. Vance was still in the house, angry and restless. I tried to ignore it, but the activity escalated. Doors would slam on their own. I would wake up with scratches on my arms that I hadn’t had before. And every night, the tapping on the window would come, now with a more insistent rhythm.

One night, I had a dream that I was in the room where Dr. Vance had his practice. I saw him standing over a table, his hands covered in blood. He turned to me, his eyes hollow, and said, ‘You have no right to be here. This is my house.’ I woke up screaming, drenched in sweat.

I knew I had to get out, but I had nowhere to go. I had signed a six-month lease, and I didn’t have the money to break it. So I decided to do research on how to cleanse a house. I bought sage and salt, and I walked through the apartment, chanting and smudging the walls. At first, it seemed to work. The tapping stopped, and I slept soundly for a week.

But then, the worst happened. I was standing in the kitchen, boiling water for tea, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadowy figure in the reflection of the window. I turned around, but there was no one there. Yet, when I looked back at the window, I saw the faint outline of a man’s face, pale and gaunt, staring at me from outside. I screamed and backed away. The face vanished, but I knew it was real.

Desperate, I went to Mrs. Kowalski and begged her to release me from the lease. I told her everything, expecting her to laugh at me. But instead, she nodded slowly, her eyes filled with fear. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,’ she said. ‘The other tenants… they always left. I should have warned you. I’m so sorry.’ She gave me my deposit back and helped me pack. I left that day, driving away without looking back.

I never returned to Bellamy Falls. I still think about that house, about the presence that haunted it. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that tapping, a rhythmic knock that seems to echo in my mind. I’ve come to realize that some places are tainted, and the past can never truly be buried. Even now, I’m afraid to close my eyes, because I know that when I do, I’ll see that pale face staring at me through the glass, waiting for me to come back.