The Unseen Tenant

I grew up in the dusty outskirts of Deming, New Mexico, a town that barely registers on any map. My family was a mess, to put it mildly. My father worked odd jobs when he wasn’t drinking, and my mother was a ghost in her own home, usually strung out on something. I spent most of my childhood trying to be invisible, but I never felt truly alone. There were two of them, I think. Figures that hovered at the edge of my vision, never clear enough to be man or woman. I told my father once, and he got me a therapist and a prescription for pills that made everything feel like a dream. I was on them from age nine to fourteen, and they dulled the shadows but never erased them.

Now, at eighteen, I’ve accepted that I see things others don’t. I’ve had premonitions too, like the time I knew my aunt was about to call before the phone rang. But nothing could prepare me for what happened three weeks ago. I was home alone, typing away on my laptop, when that familiar prickle of being watched crawled up my neck. I ignored it, as I always do. But then I felt a breath on my ear, like someone had leaned in close, and a male voice, deep and clear, said, ‘HEY.’ I spun around, heart thudding, but the room was empty. The silence rang in my ears. I told my brother, Marcus, about it later, but he just laughed and said I was still seeing things.

Two days ago, I was with Marcus and our friend, Miguel, at Miguel’s tiny apartment on the edge of town. It was a cramped place, cluttered with his art supplies and a half-dead fern. We were about to leave when that familiar watchfulness gripped me again. It was stronger this time, almost suffocating. I turned to Marcus and Miguel, but they were already at the door. ‘I’m just going to grab a picture,’ I said, and I pulled out my phone and snapped a shot of the living room. The flash caught the dust motes in the air, and for a split second, I thought I saw a shape, a dark blur, near the window. But when I checked the photo, it was just the room.

Later that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I uploaded the photo to my computer and zoomed in. At first, I saw nothing. But then I noticed something odd: on the wall behind the couch, there was a mark, like a handprint, but it was faint, almost like it was burned into the wallpaper. I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I called Miguel, but he said he’d never noticed it. I asked if he’d sent me the photo, but he was as confused as I was. I hung up, staring at the mark, and that’s when I heard it again: a whisper, not in my ear but inside my head, saying, ‘I see you.’

I tried to sleep, but I kept thinking about that mark. The next morning, I drove to Miguel’s place to check it out. The apartment was the same, but the handprint was gone. Instead, I found a streak of gray ash on the windowsill, like someone had snuffed out a cigarette there, but we never smoked inside. Miguel shrugged it off and said I was being paranoid. But as I left, I felt a cold draft, and for just a moment, I saw two figures standing in the reflection of the hallway mirror, dim and featureless, like they were waiting for me.

I drove home in a daze, the memory of that male voice echoing in my mind. That night, I was in my room, trying to distract myself online. The computer screen flickered, and an image appeared: the photo I had taken at Miguel’s, but the handprint was back, and now there was a face in the window, hollow eyes and a gaping mouth. I scrambled to delete the file, but it reappeared, and the whisper came again, now from all around me: ‘Let us in.’ I screamed as the lights flickered, and then everything went dark. When the power surged back, the photo was gone, but on my wall, written in what looked like ash, was the word ‘LEAVE.’

I haven’t been back to that room since. I’m writing this from my car, parked at a gas station, because I don’t feel safe in my own home. The two figures have always been with me, but now they’re not just shadows at the edge of my vision—they’re reaching out, trying to take hold. I don’t know what they want, but I know they’re not letting go. And I’m terrified of what they’ll do when I finally stop running.