The Third Tenant

My parents bought the old Verlac house in the summer of 2007, when I was twelve. We’d moved around a lot because of my father’s job, so a permanent home felt like a luxury. The house sat on a quiet, tree-lined street in the sleepy town of Ashford, Vermont, a place that seemed to exist in a perpetual state of autumn. The Verlac house was a massive Victorian with peeling paint and a wraparound porch that creaked even when the wind was still. It had been in the Verlac family for over a century, and they were a reclusive bunch, known for keeping to themselves. When the last of them passed away, the house sat empty for five years before my parents snapped it up at a price that was almost too good to be true.

We moved in on a warm July afternoon, but the air inside was cool and heavy, as if the house had held its breath for years. The previous owners had left behind furniture, books, and even clothes in the closets. My mother called it ‘a treasure trove of history,’ but my younger sister, Lily, said it felt like we were borrowing someone else’s life. I thought she was being dramatic. The first week passed without incident. We unpacked, explored the many rooms, and argued over who got the bigger bedroom.

A month after we moved in, our neighbor, Mrs. Greeley, stopped by with a welcome basket. She was a frail woman in her eighties with sharp, knowing eyes. She asked about the house, and when we said we loved it, she nodded slowly. ‘Have you noticed anything… odd?’ she asked, her voice low. My parents exchanged a glance but said no. Mrs. Greeley smiled thinly. ‘Well, if you do, don’t be alarmed. The Verlacs were always a peculiar bunch. They say the last one, old Ezekiel, lived here alone for twenty years after his wife died. He never left the house, you know. Never.’ She left without saying goodbye.

That night, I had trouble sleeping. I was in the attic bedroom, a converted space with sloped ceilings and a round window. Around 3 a.m., I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping coming from inside the wall. It was slow at first, like a finger drumming on wood, then it stopped. I dismissed it as a stray branch outside. But it happened every night, always at the same time. I didn’t tell my parents, not wanting to seem foolish.

A few weeks later, my father noticed something strange. He was in the study, which was on the ground floor, when he found a door hidden behind a bookshelf. It was small, about half the size of a normal door, and it was locked. There was no key anywhere. My father forced it open with a crowbar, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into darkness. We all peered down, but the air was stale and cold. My mother said, ‘It’s probably just a root cellar.’ But I saw a strange symbol carved into the doorframe. It looked like a spiral with three dots around it. I didn’t mention it.

We never went down there. But late one night, I woke to the sound of floorboards creaking in the hallway. I thought it was Lily going to the bathroom, but when I opened my door, the hallway was empty. And the sound was coming from below, from the study. I crept to the top of the stairs and listened. There was a low murmuring, as if someone was speaking in a language I didn’t recognize. Then the floorboards in the study groaned, and I heard the unmistakable sound of the hidden door being opened. I ran back to my room and buried my head under my pillow.

The next day, I told my parents about the sounds. They laughed it off, saying it was an old house settling. But that afternoon, I saw Lily in the backyard, staring at the window of the study. She was pale. I asked her what was wrong. She said, ‘There was a face at the window. An old man with a long white beard. He was looking right at me.’ I tried to reassure her, but I felt a chill. That night, I decided to investigate the hidden room myself.

I took a flashlight and quietly made my way to the study. The bookshelf was ajar. I squeezed through the opening and descended the stairs. The air grew colder with every step. At the bottom, there was a small, dusty room. In the center stood an old wooden table, covered with yellowed papers, rusted tools, and glass jars filled with strange, murky liquids. On the far wall hung a portrait of an elderly man with a stern face and piercing blue eyes. It was the same man Lily described. I felt a presence behind me, but when I turned, there was nothing.

I picked up one of the papers. It was a handwritten letter, dated 1912. It was addressed to ‘Ezekiel’ and signed ‘your devoted daughter, Agnes.’ The letter read: ‘Father, I have done as you asked. The third tenant will come, but be wary. He will be greedy, and he will take more than he gives.’ I had no idea what it meant, but the hair on my arms stood up.

Over the next few months, things escalated. Objects would move on their own. I’d find my stuff rearranged in my room. Once, I heard a voice whisper my name, but no one was there. My parents started arguing more, and Lily began sleepwalking, standing in the corner of her room at night and staring at the wall. My father’s business started failing. A deep, oppressive gloom settled over the house.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to my parents’ room and confessed everything: the tapping, the voice, the face at the window, the letters. My parents looked at each other, and then my father finally spoke. ‘We’ve felt it too,’ he said. ‘We thought we were going crazy.’ We decided to do some research. My mother found an old newspaper archive online. We discovered that the Verlac family had a dark history. Ezekiel Verlac, the last owner, had been a recluse who believed the house was built on an Indian burial ground and that a malevolent spirit inhabited the land. He performed rituals to ‘appease the entity,’ and he believed that every third family to live in the house must sacrifice something precious to survive. We were the third tenants since the Verlacs. The first two families had both abandoned the house within a year, having suffered mysterious tragedies.

We tried to sell the house, but every realtor who came in felt uneasy and backed out. We tried to move out ourselves, but we were broke. We were trapped.

One evening, I was in my room when the tapping started again, but this time it was faster and more insistent. I put my ear to the wall, and I could hear a faint voice, saying, ‘You must give something of value. Something dear.’ I shuddered.

I don’t know what we did to appease it. My parents considered selling everything we owned, but the voice grew angrier. Our dog ran away, and Lily got so sick with a fever that she was hospitalized for a week. I was desperate. I remembered the symbols on the doorframe and the letters. I went back down to the hidden room and found a journal of Ezekiel’s. It described the rituals he performed to bind the spirit. It required a personal sacrifice, ‘a token of your essence.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I had to do something.

On the last night we were in the house, I took a lock of my hair, a photograph of my family, and my favorite childhood toy—a worn teddy bear. I placed them on the table and spoke the incantation from the journal. As I finished, the air grew heavy, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, but there was nothing. A whisper said, ‘It is done.’

The next morning, the house felt lighter. The oppression lifted. We finally found a buyer, a young couple who loved the house’s history. We moved out and never looked back. But sometimes, I still think about the house, and I wonder if the spirit moved on or if it’s still waiting for another third tenant. And I think about my family, and I know that we gave something precious that night—we gave a part of our lives, and perhaps a part of our souls. And I wonder if that is what it wanted all along.