The Throat-Clearing Man

Marta had always felt a presence in her apartment, but it was the kind of presence you rationalize away: the creak of old pipes, the whisper of wind through the window frames, the occasional flicker of a bulb. She’d lived there for three years, and in that time, she’d learned to ignore the subtle shifts in the air, the way a door would drift open on its own. But there was one presence, one particular phenomenon, that she could never quite dismiss.

It was the throat-clearing. Not the polite ‘ahem’ of a stranger, but a deep, guttural sound that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. It happened at odd hours—when she was alone, when she was on the phone, when she was just about to fall asleep. It was as if something was trying to get her attention, but could never quite bring itself to speak.

One evening, after a late night class that ran until 9:30, Marta trudged home through the biting November wind. Her friend Lila was staying over to study for their statistics final. They grabbed a late dinner from the 24-hour diner on the corner, and by 11, they were back in Marta’s apartment, the only light emanating from the bedroom where Lila was watching a movie on her laptop.

Marta was in the living room, pacing by the window, her phone pressed to her ear. She was on the line with her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, Daniel, who was, as usual, making excuses for why he couldn’t come over. She kept her voice low, not wanting to disturb Lila’s movie, but also because something about the darkness of the living room felt intimate, like a secret conversation.

The apartment was a classic railroad layout: a long hallway connected the living room to the bedroom, with the dining room tucked in between, a small dark space that Marta rarely used except to store her vintage record collection. The only light in the apartment came from the bedroom, spilling down the hallway and casting long, distorted shadows across the living room floor. The window was cracked open, letting in the occasional gust of cold air and the distant sound of traffic.

A few minutes into the call, Marta heard it. A low, rasping sound, like someone clearing a throat thick with phlegm. It came from the dining room, to her left, beyond a half-closed door.

She froze, her grip on the phone tightening. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked Daniel, but he was mid-rant about his boss, and didn’t register her question. She listened, but the sound didn’t repeat. She chalked it up to the neighbors—their TV was always too loud, and sometimes their coughed words carried through the thin walls.

She tried to refocus on the conversation, but her ears were primed. Then it came again. Closer this time, almost at the threshold of the living room. A sharp, annoyed throat-clear, as if someone was impatient with her for not responding.

Marta’s heart began to beat faster. She stepped away from the window, her eyes scanning the darkened room. The shadows from the bedroom light made the corners of the room pulse. She thought about calling out to Lila, but she didn’t want to seem jumpy. She told herself it was just her imagination, that the wind was playing tricks.

The third time, it was unmistakably in the room with her. It wasn’t coming from the dining room or the walls—it was right beside her left ear, a sound so vivid she could almost feel the breath of it on her neck. It was a long, drawn-out ‘Ahem’, heavy with menace, as if the owner of the voice was deeply annoyed that she was ignoring them.

Marta’s blood ran cold. She spun around, but there was nothing there. The living room was empty, the shadows still. She heard the sound again, even closer now, in her other ear, this time sharper, almost a bark. ‘AHEM.’

She dropped her phone, the clatter echoing in the room. Daniel’s voice came from the speaker, tinny and distant, but she couldn’t make out the words. She was frozen, her breath catching in her throat.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the faint sound of Lila’s movie from the bedroom. Marta picked up the phone, her hands shaking. She told Daniel she had to go, that she’d call back later, and hung up without waiting for a reply.

She stood in the dark, listening. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. The presence, if it was there, had retreated. But Marta couldn’t shake the feeling that it was waiting, sullen and angry, for her to give it the attention it demanded.

She went to the bedroom, where Lila was curled up, oblivious. ‘Did you hear anything?’ Marta asked, her voice trembling.

‘Hear what? The movie’s kinda loud,’ Lila said, not looking away from the screen.

Marta didn’t press. She changed into her pajamas, but sleep was elusive. Every creak of the old building made her jolt. She kept thinking about that fourth throat-clear—how it had been right in her ear, so loud and mean that it was almost a threat. It wasn’t a cough, or a sound of illness. It was the sound of something trying to speak, but only capable of making that one, terrible noise.

Over the next week, it happened again. Not every night, but often. She would be reading on the couch, or cooking dinner, and the throat-clearing would come from another room, always a little closer, always a little louder. She tried to ignore it, but it was as if the sound was specifically designed to burrow into her consciousness. She began to dread the silence, because she knew it was only a matter of time before she heard it again.

She told herself it was psychological, that the stress of exams and the breakup was making her paranoid. But deep down, she knew it was real. She could feel the weight of a presence in the apartment, a personality that was growing impatient with her denial.

Then one night, she was in her bedroom, studying at her desk. Lila had gone home, and she was alone. The apartment was quiet, but she didn’t trust the quiet. Around 2 AM, she heard it for the fifth time that night. It was right behind her, so close that she could feel a cold breath on the back of her neck. She whirled around, but nothing was there.

But this time, there was something else. A scraping sound, like nails on wood, coming from the hallway. She got up, her legs trembling, and peered into the dark. The hallway was empty, but the door to the dining room was now wide open, and she could see a pair of pale, almost translucent hands gripping the doorframe, as if someone was standing just out of sight, about to step into the light.

Marta’s throat went dry. ‘Who’s there?’ she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

There was no answer, but the hands tightened on the frame. Then, slowly, a figure emerged. It was a man, or what used to be a man. His skin was gray and mottled, like a corpse left in water, and his eyes were sunken black pits. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit, stained and tattered, and his mouth was open, as if he was about to speak. But instead of words, a hideous, guttural sound came out—a throat-clear that was so loud it shook the walls, so painful that Marta clapped her hands over her ears.

‘Stop!’ she cried, backing away.

But the figure didn’t stop. It took a step forward, its mouth working soundlessly, and then it emitted another throat-clear, this one even louder, making the glass in the windows rattle. Marta stumbled into her bedroom, slamming the door shut, but she could hear it approaching, its heavy footsteps echoing in the hall.

She grabbed her phone, dialing Lila’s number, but the line was dead. She tried the door, but it was locked, as if something was holding it closed from the other side.

The throat-clearing continued, now right outside the door, a relentless barrage of sound. Marta sank to the floor, her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. She realized that the presence had been trying to get her attention all along, but she had ignored it. Now it was angry, and it would not be ignored any longer.

Just as she thought she would be driven mad, the sound stopped. The apartment fell into an eerie silence, broken only by her own sobs. She waited, but nothing else happened. After a long while, she slowly crawled to the door and unlocked it, peeking out. The hallway was empty, the door to the dining room closed.

She never heard the throat-clearing again. But she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that the presence was still there, waiting. It had made its point, and now it was biding its time, watching her, waiting for her to acknowledge it or deny it one last time.

Marta never told anyone about what she saw. She still lives in that apartment, because she’s too afraid to move, afraid that the presence might follow her. And every time she’s alone in the silence, she listens for that sound, the one that made her feel both terrified and strangely connected to something beyond the veil. It never comes, but she knows it’s only a matter of time before it does, and this time, she won’t be able to pretend it’s just the neighbors.