The Tenant Who Left No Trace

Three years ago, I made the decision to uproot my life and return to the small town of Millbrook, nestled in the foothills of the Cascades. I had abandoned my apartment in Portland, leaving behind every piece of furniture, my entire wardrobe, and my desktop computer, entrusting them to my former roommates until I could secure a new place and haul everything across the state. I spent months sleeping on couches and crashing in spare rooms, scouring rental listings that promised enough space for my belongings, but everything was either too expensive or too cramped.

One drizzly afternoon, I was killing time at my friend’s café, sipping a lukewarm latte, when a man in his fifties burst through the door, shaking rain from his jacket. He grumbled to the barista about his rental property—a Victorian house on Maple Avenue—that his tenants had abandoned in the middle of the night, owing two months’ rent and leaving behind a mess. They had vanished without a word, and he was stuck with a vacant house and a mountain of cleanup. Curious, I struck up a conversation. He mentioned the house had four bedrooms, a spacious living room, and a basement, and the rent was laughably low for the square footage. Nearly desperate, I asked to see it immediately.

The house stood on a quiet corner, its porch sagging, paint peeling in long curls. Inside, the wood floors creaked underfoot, and the air smelled of dust and old wood. But what struck me most was the peculiar arrangement of the kitchen drawers: every single one was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry, but there was no other sign of chaos. The previous tenants had left behind a few odd items: a ceramic toucan, a stack of yellowed newspapers from 1987, and a child’s drawing of a house with a big red sun and stick figures holding hands. The landlord shrugged, saying he’d have it all cleared out, but I felt an inexplicable pull to keep the drawing.

I signed the lease that week. The rent was a steal, and I moved my belongings in over the following weekend. The first few nights were uneventful, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the occasional creak of the house settling. But then, on the third night, I woke at 3:17 AM to a sound that made my blood run cold: the slow, rhythmic opening and closing of drawers in the kitchen. I crept downstairs, heart pounding, but the kitchen was silent. All the drawers were shut. I opened a few—empty. I told myself it was just my imagination, the old house groaning.

The incidents escalated. I began finding the kitchen drawers slightly ajar every morning, even after I’d meticulously closed them. A photograph of my parents, which I’d placed on the mantel, was found face-down on the floor. And one evening, I heard a faint scratching from inside the walls, like fingernails dragging across plaster. I tried to rationalize: maybe it was a raccoon in the attic, or the wind playing tricks on the old windows. But the scratching always seemed to follow me, growing louder when I was alone.

One day, I decided to investigate the basement—a musty, cramped space I’d avoided until then. It was cluttered with the previous tenants’ forgotten junk: a broken rocking chair, a mildewed suitcase, and a cardboard box labeled ‘MISC.’ Inside the box, I found a journal. Its pages were filled with looping, frantic handwriting, dated just before the tenants vanished. The writer described a sensation of being watched, of hearing footsteps in the attic at night, and of a shape that flickered at the edge of their vision—tall, gaunt, with long arms that reached toward the ceiling. The final entry read: ‘It has found the children. I cannot let it take them. We must leave tonight.’

Chilled, I placed the journal back and hurried upstairs. But that night, the scratching was back, more insistent than ever. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and whispered, ‘What do you want?’ The scratching stopped. Then, from the corner of the room, a voice—dry, like old leaves—said, ‘They left me behind. You will be my company.’ I froze, a cold sweat breaking out. I didn’t sleep that night.

Over the next week, I tried to stay away, sleeping at my friend’s café on the floor behind the counter. But the rent was already paid, and I had nowhere else to go. When I returned, I found the kitchen drawers open wider than before, and on the floor, the child’s drawing was torn in half, with the stick figures scratched out. I knew then that the entity was growing bolder. I sought help from the local librarian, who’d heard rumors about the house: a century ago, a reclusive clockmaker had lived there, and after his death, his body wasn’t found for months. The librarian told me that some believe he still lingers, angry that he was forgotten.

The final straw came when I woke to find my shoes arranged at the foot of the bed, pointing toward the closet. The closet door was ajar, and from within, the scratching was now a low, continuous hum. I knew I had to leave, but as I grabbed my keys, the hum grew into a wail, and the walls seemed to press in. I ran out, never looking back, and slept in my car that night. The next day, I called the landlord and told him I was leaving, not bothering to explain. He was furious, but I didn’t care. I abandoned everything again—my furniture, my clothes, my computer—and drove away from Millbrook forever.

I still think about that house, about the previous tenants and their desperate flight. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine the drawers sliding open on their own, and I hear that dry voice whispering, ‘You left me too.’ But I try not to think about it. I’ve learned to never rent a house with a basement, and to always close the drawers before I sleep.