The Unseen Landlord

It began with the pipes. Not the usual gurgle or clank of an aging building, but a wet, rhythmic thumping that seemed to follow a pattern—three beats, pause, two beats—like a code from the walls. I had moved into the old red-brick apartment building on Sumner Street, hoping for a fresh start after a messy divorce. The apartment was on the fourth floor, overlooking the cemetery that bordered the block, a fact that gave me an odd sense of peace. For the first few weeks, it was quiet, almost too quiet. But then the thumping started, always at 3 AM, just as I was drifting into a deep sleep. I would lie there, counting the beats, my heart aligning with the muffled rhythm. It never frightened me, merely unsettled me, like a neighbor’s dog barking persistently from behind a wall.

My landlord, Mr. Pemberton, was a gaunt, elderly man who lived on the ground floor. He was friendly enough, but he had a habit of appearing in the hallway with unsettling punctuality, as if he knew exactly when I left for work or came back with groceries. One evening, I mentioned the nightly thumping. He gave me a long, strange look, his eyes watering behind thick glasses, and said, ‘That’s just Old Morton.’ ‘Who?’ I asked. He waved a hand dismissively. ‘A tenant from the 1950s. He passed away in this building. Some say he never left.’ I laughed it off, thinking he was joking. But after that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the rhythm of the thumps matched the cadence of an old man’s cane.

The next week, I decided to repaint my bedroom to make the place feel more like mine. I moved the bed away from the wall, and that’s when I noticed a small, rectangular slot cut into the baseboard, just above the floor. It was the size of a vent, but it was sealed with a piece of wood that had been painted over multiple times. Curious, I pried it open with a butter knife. Inside was a narrow shaft leading down into the darkness, and I could hear the thumping more clearly, as if it originated from within. I shone a flashlight down and saw something glinting far below—a fragment of a mirror. I tried to pull it up, but it was wedged tight. As I strained, I felt a cold draft on my neck, and the thumping stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise.

That night, I had the first of many dreams about the shaft. In the dream, I was descending it, the walls closing in, until I reached a small room lined with mirrors. In each reflection, I saw a different version of myself, but in one, I was old and frail, leaning on a cane. The old woman in the mirror smiled and tapped the floor with her cane three times. Then she spoke, her voice echoing, ‘You’ll see what I see.’ I woke up with a gasp, my heart racing. The thumping had returned, louder and more insistent, and I felt the weight of an unseen presence at the edge of my bed, as if someone was sitting there, watching me.

Days turned into weeks. I grew obsessive about the slot, trying to remove the mirror fragment, but it seemed to be stuck by more than just time. Meanwhile, strange things began to happen. Cold spots would appear in my apartment, and I would hear soft footsteps in the hallway even when I was alone. I started to see faint, translucent figures in my peripheral vision, but when I turned, there was nothing. I lost weight, couldn’t sleep, and yet I was compelled to stay, to solve the mystery of Old Morton.

One night, I decided to stay up to confront the presence. At 3 AM, the thumping started, and I felt a wave of anger and despair wash over me, not my own emotions but something external. I walked to the slot and knelt down, pressing my ear to it. I heard a voice, so faint it could have been the wind, saying, ‘Let me see the light.’ Then the slot began to tremble, as if something was pushing from the other side. I stumbled back, tripping over a box of paint cans, and the last thing I remember was the mirror fragment clattering to the floor.

When I woke up, I was on the floor, my hands covered in dust and splinters. The slot was closed again, as if it had never been opened. But on the baseboard, scratched into the wood, was a name: ‘Beatrice.’ That was not my name, nor had I ever seen it in the apartment. I asked the landlord about it the next day, and he turned pale. ‘That was Old Morton’s wife,’ he whispered. ‘She died in that room. He kept her body in the walls for years before they found him.’ I moved out the following week, but even now, in my new apartment across town, I sometimes hear three beats, pause, two beats, coming from the walls. And when I look in the mirror, I see a woman standing behind me, not my reflection, tapping a cane, waiting for me to let her see the light.