The Tenant on Guthrie Road

I’ve never told this story to anyone who didn’t look at me like I was crazy, but I swear on my mother’s grave it’s true. It happened in the autumn of 1987, when I was eight years old, in the old Merriweather house on Guthrie Road. That place wasn’t just old; it was ancient, with wood that had warped and settled into groans and sighs, and windows that seemed to watch you like patient, staring eyes. My dad had gotten a job in the nearby town, and the rent was cheap enough that we couldn’t say no, even though the realtor’s smile seemed a little too tight when she handed over the keys.

My room was at the top of a narrow staircase, a converted attic with sloping ceilings and a single dormer window looking out over the overgrown backyard. My parents insisted on keeping the door to that room locked at all times—a heavy iron bolt and a brass latch that always stuck—because they were afraid I’d fall out. But I remember the strangest thing: no matter how carefully we locked it, whenever we came back from anywhere, that door would be standing wide open, as if something inside had been waiting for us to leave.

At night, the house played its own music. I’d lie in bed listening to the creak of old bones in the walls, and sometimes—I couldn’t mistake it—I’d hear footsteps on the roof right above my ceiling. Heavy, thumping steps, as if a giant were pacing back and forth. And then there was the laughter. It wasn’t a child’s laugh or a man’s laugh; it was a sound that came from everywhere and nowhere, a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the floorboards and into my chest, as if the house itself were amused by my fear. I told my mother, and she tried to brush it off, but her eyes went wide and she started sleeping in my room on a cot, claiming she wanted to be close to me, but I knew she was scared too. She would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and when the laughter came, she’d whisper, ‘It’s just the pipes, sweetie, just the old pipes.’ But her hands would tremble as she pulled the blanket to her chin.

Then the windows started. We had these old casement windows with cranks, and Dad would close and latch every one of them before we left for the day. But when we came home, they’d be swinging open, the sills dusted with fallen leaves and the smell of decay. At first, Dad blamed the wind, but we all knew the latches were stiff and had to be turned with real force. The doors were worse. We’d shut the kitchen door, press the handle down firmly, and find it open in the hallway when we returned. My mom started to whisper that the house ‘wanted us to know it was there.’

One time, I was home with a cold, and mom had to run to the pharmacy. She locked the balcony door and said, ‘Stay in bed, I’ll be right back.’ I watched her car drive away, then heard a single, deliberate knock on my bedroom door. I said ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Then the laughter started—not muffled, but right in my ear, as if someone were crouched behind my headboard. I jumped out of bed, but my door was locked, and when I turned around, the balcony door was open, the curtains blowing in a breeze that smelled of wet earth, even though the window was supposed to be locked. I stood frozen, staring at the open door, and I could have sworn I saw a silhouette—tall and thin—standing just outside the glass, but as I watched, it dissolved into the twilight.

My mom never slept well again. She said she saw things in mirrors, like a face just behind her own, but when she turned, it was gone. Dad grew quiet, spending long hours outside, even in the cold, muttering to himself. The house was eating away at us, not with violence, but with a slow, patient wearing down of our sanity.

We moved out just before Christmas, after only eight months. The realtor didn’t ask why; she just nodded and gave us our deposit back without a word. I’ve never returned to Guthrie Road, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’ll hear that same low chuckle, and I’ll feel the presence of that house, watching me from the dark windows of my memory. And I know one thing for certain: it’s not done with us. Someday, I’ll open a door and find myself back there, standing on the threshold, and it will be waiting for me.