The Tenant of Room 3B

In the fall of 2014, I moved into the top floor of an old, converted schoolhouse on the outskirts of Millbrook. The bottom floor was a dusty antique shop that closed at dusk, and the middle was a cramped office for a reclusive accountant. I got the top, which had been divided into two apartments, but the one next to mine had been vacant for months. The landlord, a tired man named Mr. Belcher, told me the previous tenant left unexpectedly, owing two months’ rent. I felt a pang of pity but didn’t dwell.

January brought an ice storm that sealed the windows shut. I was a freelance editor, so I rarely left except to fetch groceries. The building creaked and groaned with the cold, and I found comfort in the silence. But one night, I woke at 3 AM with a prickling sensation on my neck. My room was dark, but I could have sworn a shape stood in the corner, slightly darker than the shadows. I blinked, and it was gone. I chalked it up to a nightmare, but it happened again the next night, and the next.

I began to notice faint scratches on my floorboards, fresh ones, as if something had been dragged across them. I also heard muffled thumps from the apartment next door, though I knew it was empty. I knocked on the wall once, experimentally. The thumps stopped. But then, a soft, scratchy voice whispered through the plaster: ‘Who are you?’ I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I called Mr. Belcher and asked about the history of the building. He hesitated, then said, ‘That place was a school until the 1970s. There was an accident, a child fell down the stairs. They never found who pushed him.’ He added, ‘The last tenant, he complained about noises too. Said he saw a boy in a yellow raincoat. Then he left without a word.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in my kitchen, drinking weak coffee, when I heard a faint dripping sound from the closet. I opened it, and there, on the floor, was a small puddle of water. A single red rubber boot lay beside it, child-sized. I backed away, my heart pounding. I knew the previous tenant had left his boots behind, but I never saw that one before.

The scratching came again, but this time it was rhythmic, like a child writing on a chalkboard. I followed the sound to the shared wall. There, in the paint, someone had scratched a message: ‘HE LIES.’ The letters were small and shaky, as if made by a tiny hand. I felt a cold draft, and the room seemed to shrink.

I tried to rationalize it, but the atmosphere grew thick. I began to sleep with the lights on, but the boy in the yellow raincoat appeared at the foot of my bed, his face pale and featureless. He pointed to the ceiling, then down, then to the wall. He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out: ‘She knows.’

I realized I had to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore. As I packed my bags, I heard a crash from the unit next door, followed by a child’s laugh. I walked to the connecting door, which was locked. But the key was in my hand, the one Mr. Belcher gave me for emergencies. I unlocked it and stepped inside.

The room was dark and smelled of dust and decay. In the center, a small rocking chair moved on its own, back and forth. On a shelf, I saw rows of old school photos, all with the faces scratched out. One photo stood out: a group of children, and in the back, a girl with red hair. She was the only one not scratched out. Her eyes were pale, and she was staring straight at the camera. On the back, in pencil: ‘The one who pushed him.’

I dropped the photo and ran. I never looked back. But as I drove away, I saw in the rearview mirror a small figure in the window of the apartment, both windows, waving. It wore a yellow raincoat, and beside it, a red-haired girl, grinning.

Later, I got a letter from Mr. Belcher, forwarding it from the previous tenant. It read: ‘I’m sorry I left without a warning. She’s still there. She blames everyone. The boy in the raincoat is her victim. He tries to warn you, but she silences him. Don’t trust the landlord. He knows. He owns the secret. But I guess you’ve found out already. Good luck.’

I never returned to Millbrook. But to this day, I sometimes see a small, yellow-clad figure standing at the edge of my vision, always pointing. And I hear a faint whisper behind me: ‘She knows.’