The Tenant’s Vigil

I moved into the flat above the old laundromat on Meridian Street in September, the same week the autumn rains began. It wasn’t my first choice—the building had a sour smell of detergent and damp, and the windows rattled in their frames. But it was cheap, close to the university, and my friend Mira had vouched for the place. Her boyfriend, Tomas, had lived there before me, and when I mentioned I was taking over the lease, he’d gone quiet, then said, ‘Just keep your lights on after dark.’ He didn’t elaborate, and I laughed it off, but the way his eyes flicked to the ceiling unsettled me.

My new flatmate, Priya, was a quiet second-year who kept to herself, and the third room was occupied by a man named Derek who worked night shifts at a hospital, so I rarely saw him. The flat itself was sparse: beige carpets, a kitchen with a Formica counter, and a living room that faced the street. The first strange thing happened my second week. I’d come home late from the library, and as I unlocked the door, I heard a sound from the living room—a soft, rhythmic creak, like a rocking chair on a wooden floor. I stepped inside and flicked on the light. The room was empty, the only furniture a lumpy sofa and a TV on a stand. But the air was cold, much colder than the hallway, and the window was open a crack, letting in the drizzle. I closed it and went to bed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

A few days later, Priya cornered me in the kitchen, her face pale. ‘Do you ever feel like, you know, something’s watching you here?’ she asked. I admitted I did. She told me she’d been staying with a friend on campus for the past week but had come back to grab some clothes. ‘Last night, I woke up at 3 a.m. and heard breathing right next to my bed. But no one was there.’ She left again that evening, and I was alone in the flat, Derek still at work.

That night, I decided to sleep with my lamp on. At around 2 a.m., I was jolted awake by a loud thump from the living room. I lay still, my heart pounding. Then I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, like someone pacing. I got up, grabbed my phone, and padded to the doorway. The living room was dimly lit by the streetlamp outside. And there, in the far corner, next to the window, stood a figure. It was vaguely human-shaped but wrong—its head was too large, and its arms hung too long, almost touching the floor. It wasn’t moving, just standing there, facing me. I froze, unable to even breathe. Then it tilted its head, and I felt a wave of nausea. I backed away slowly and locked myself in my room. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I inspected the living room. There was nothing unusual—no marks, no disturbance. But I found a business card on the floor near the corner, cream-colored, with a name and number: ‘G. Holloway, Cemetery Maintenance.’ I’d never seen it before. I shoved it in my pocket and tried to call Priya, but she didn’t answer. Derek came home that afternoon, looking exhausted. I asked him if he’d ever noticed anything strange. He hesitated, then said, ‘You mean the old lady who used to live here?’ I felt a chill. He told me that a woman in her 70s had lived in the flat before the current landlord bought it. She’d died alone in her bedroom, and no one had found her for weeks. He didn’t know which room, but he’d always hated the place. ‘She was a recluse,’ he said. ‘Never left the flat, always talking to the walls.’

I started leaving the lights on in every room, even during the day. But the presence grew stronger. I’d feel a cold spot in the hallway, or hear faint whispers that seemed to come from the vents. One night, I was washing dishes when the kitchen faucet turned on by itself, then off. I turned to leave and saw a shadow dart across the living room. I dropped the glass I was holding, shattering it. I ran to my room and buried myself under the covers like a child.

The breaking point came on a rainy Sunday. I was in my room, reading, when I heard a voice—soft, female, old—right in my ear: ‘Why are you sitting in my chair?’ I spun around, but there was no one. Then, from the living room, I heard the unmistakable sound of a rocking chair, creaking back and forth. Summoning all my courage, I crept out. In the corner, where I’d seen the figure before, there was now an old rocking chair—the same one I’d seen in the corner that night, but I’d never noticed it before. It was rocking on its own. And sitting in it was a translucent woman in a floral dress, her hair white and wispy, staring at me with hollow eyes. ‘Get out,’ she said, her voice like rustling leaves.

I didn’t wait to grab anything. I flew out of the flat and didn’t stop until I reached the bus stop, drenched and shaking. I called Mira and told her everything. She told me to go to the police, but I knew they wouldn’t help. Instead, I went to the campus housing office and begged for a transfer. Within a week, I moved into a dorm with three other girls, and I never went back for my belongings. A month later, a letter arrived at my parents’ house, forwarded from the old address. It was a utility bill for the flat, but in the ‘notes’ section, someone had written in shaky handwriting: ‘The lady thanks you for leaving her home. She says she’ll keep the seat warm for the next one.’

I still have that bill, and that business card. I never figured out what happened to the old woman or why she haunted that place. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint creaking, like a rocking chair, coming from my closet. And I know, somehow, that she followed me. Not to hurt me, but to remind me that some tenants never truly leave.