The Thrown Bag

I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts, not really. But living in that old apartment on Hemlock Street, with its creaking floors and drafty windows, I started to question everything. My name is Julian, and I’ve been staying here for my final year of university, trying to focus on my thesis while the world outside fades to grey. The apartment was cheap, too cheap, and now I know why.

It started with a feeling. A prickling at the back of my neck, like someone was watching me from the corner of the room. I’d turn, but there was never anyone there. I chalked it up to stress, to the long hours studying alone. But it persisted, growing stronger each day. Some nights, I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I could feel something breathing beside me, even though I was alone.

One evening, I was hunched over my desk, trying to decipher a particularly dense passage in a philosophy textbook. The clock on my nightstand read 8:47 PM. Suddenly, three sharp knocks echoed from the door. They were insistent, demanding. I figured it was my neighbor, Mrs. Kessler, who often borrowed sugar or complained about the noise. I sighed, set down my pen, and shuffled to the door. I swung it open, ready with an excuse about my thesis, but the hallway was empty. The dim fluorescent light flickered, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I closed the door, chalking it up to a prank or a loose pipe.

But the feeling of being watched intensified. I tried to ignore it, returning to my book. By 11:00 PM, I’d given up on studying and flopped onto my bed, flipping on the TV to some late-night horror movie. The static, the creepy music, it all felt too fitting. I was just getting into a scene when I heard a whooshing sound, and my old leather satchel, which I’d left on my bookshelf, flew across the room. It didn’t just slide or fall; it arced through the air as if thrown by an invisible hand, landing with a thud in the middle of the floor. I froze, my heart hammering. That was not a draft. That was deliberate.

I tried to rationalize. Maybe the shelf was uneven. But the satchel was heavy with books and papers; it couldn’t have just slid. I decided to investigate. I set up my phone to record the room overnight, hoping to capture something, anything, that would explain the phenomenon.

The next morning, I reviewed the footage. At 3:00 AM, the TV turned off by itself, even though I’d unplugged it before going to bed. Later, a chair scraped across the floor, leaving fresh marks on the worn linoleum. I was terrified, but also intrigued. I started to research the history of the building. I found an old newspaper article about a former resident, a reclusive writer named Geraldine, who had died under mysterious circumstances in the ’70s. Her obituary mentioned she was an avid collector of antique mirrors, and that after her death, a trunk of her belongings was left in the basement.

My curiosity got the better of me. I descended into the dank, cobweb-filled basement, flashlight in hand. Among the rusted bicycles and broken furniture, I found the trunk. It was locked, but the lock was flimsy, and I managed to pry it open. Inside, I found a tarnished mirror, its frame ornate with strange symbols. I took it back to my apartment, thinking I could research its origin. Big mistake.

From the moment I brought that mirror into my room, the activity escalated. My lights flickered rhythmically, as if in response to my heartbeat. The radio in the kitchen would suddenly switch to static, even when it was off. Doors creaked open on their own. But the worst was the whispers. I’d hear my name being called in Geraldine’s voice, a voice I only knew from an old recording I found online. She’d whisper, ‘Help me,’ and ‘Let me in,’ until I couldn’t sleep.

One night, I decided to confront the presence. I had a Ouija board from a misguided attempt to communicate with it months ago. I sat on my bed, the board on my lap, the mirror facing me. I asked, ‘Are you strong enough to move things?’ The planchette didn’t move, but the mirror suddenly cracked, a spiderweb of lines across its surface. Then, my desk chair tipped over, papers flew, and the TV turned on to static, the volume blaring. I shouted, ‘Stop! What do you want?’

A guttural voice, not Geraldine’s, but something deeper and more malevolent, seemed to emanate from the mirror. ‘You brought me here. Now you will leave.’ It was a threat. I looked into the broken mirror and saw not my face, but a swirling darkness with two glowing red eyes. I threw the mirror across the room, shattering it into pieces.

Since then, the occurrences have calmed, but they haven’t completely stopped. I still feel a presence, especially at night. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see those red eyes, waiting. I don’t know if I banished it or if it’s just biding its time. All I know is that I can’t stay here much longer. The mirror is gone, but the thrown bag, the flying satchel, remains a stark reminder that some things are not content to stay in the dark. And that there may be more to my new home than I ever bargained for.