THE LAST TENANT
Most people won’t believe this story, and honestly, I wish I didn’t believe it either. But I do — because I saw what happened with my own eyes.
And I still see it sometimes when I close them.
This happened in 2019, when I was working as a freelance photographer just outside Shimla. Money was tight, and when a friend told me about an old colonial house that rented rooms for cheap, I took it without hesitation. The house was over a hundred years old — high stone walls, moss along the staircase, windows tall and narrow like watchful eyes.
The landlord, Mr. Varma, seemed harmless enough — elderly, polite, and overly apologetic about the lack of modern amenities.
“There are generators,” he said, “but the wiring is old. If the lights flicker sometimes, don’t worry. And… one more thing.”
He hesitated.
“If you hear footsteps upstairs late at night, just ignore them. The attic beams expand with cold.”
I wasn’t the type to get spooked over creaking wood. I signed the rental agreement.
THE FIRST NIGHT
It was around 11:30 PM when I first heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not footsteps — taps.
It sounded like someone knocking gently on the attic floor directly above my room.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Tap… tap… tap.
I listened, motionless. After about thirty seconds, the sound just stopped. No footsteps walking away. No settling wood. Just silence.
I convinced myself it was an animal.
But part of me knew — it wasn’t.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
The next morning, I decided to document the house. The mist outside was thick and eerie, and the old architecture looked perfect for a moody photography series.
When I reviewed the photos, my stomach tightened.
In one of them — a hallway shot — there was a silhouette standing near the attic stairs. Human-sized. Solid. Unmistakable.
But I knew no one had been behind me when I took that picture.
I zoomed in.
The figure appeared to be a woman with her head tilted forward, hair covering her face.
I closed the file immediately.
I didn’t believe in ghosts — not really — but that picture made my palms sweat.
THE SCRATCHING
Two nights later, the sound returned — only this time, it wasn’t tapping.
It was scratching.
A long, drawn-out sound, like nails dragging across wood.
Scccrraaatch.
Then faster.
Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, but every instinct screamed that someone — or something — was above me.
After about a minute, the scratching stopped, replaced by…
Breathing.
Slow. Heavy. Wet.
Right above me — like someone was lying flat on the attic floor with their face pressed to the boards, listening.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
MR. VARMA’S WARNING
The next morning, I confronted the landlord.
“There’s something in the attic,” I said. “Someone.”
He looked at me with the tired expression of a man who expected this conversation.
“You heard scratching?”
“Yes.”
“And breathing?”
I nodded.
He sighed and looked toward the attic door.
“You’re not the first,” he whispered. “And you won’t be the last.”
Then he told me the story.
THE WOMAN IN THE ATTIC
In 1948, just after independence, a British family left India in a hurry. They locked their servant — a young woman named Mira — in the attic after she was accused of stealing a necklace belonging to the lady of the house.
They meant to deal with her later.
But they never returned.
Abandoned. Hungry. Terrified.
She died alone in the attic.
When the house was eventually sold, the new owners found scratches along the boards — deep grooves from her nails — and blood stains.
Some say she still searches for the people who trapped her.
Others say she knocks to see if anyone will let her out.
Mr. Varma stared at me.
“You must never open the attic door after dark,” he said quietly. “No matter what you hear.”
THE NIGHT OF THE DOOR
I told myself I would leave the next morning. I packed my things, booked a cab, and tried to get through one last night.
The tapping returned at 1:07 AM.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then came the scratching — frantic this time, desperate.
SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH—
I pulled the blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut.
Then came the knock.
On my door.
Three distinct raps, soft but unmistakable.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone — or something — was standing on the other side.
My phone was on the bed. I grabbed it. The hallway camera feed popped onto the screen.
There was no one at the door.
But the knocking continued.
This time louder.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Then I heard it:
A woman's voice — broken, hoarse, strained.
“Let me out.”
I dropped the phone.
The voice came again — louder — angry.
“LET. ME. OUT.”
Every hair on my body stood upright.
And then — the attic door slammed open.
Not my room door — the one above me.
I heard footsteps running across the attic floor.
Fast.
Toward the stairs.
I could hear her descending — each step faster, harder.
I froze.
The hallway camera feed flickered.
For a moment, I saw her —
A pale figure with long black hair hanging forward, one shoulder jutting out unnaturally, skin sagging like old parchment. Her hands dragged against the wall, leaving long dark streaks.
She wasn’t walking.
She was clawing her way forward.
Then she stopped — right outside my room.
I heard her breathing — hot and ragged — from the gap beneath the door.
She whispered:
“I know you hear me.”
THE DOOR HANDLE
The handle turned.
Slowly.
Metal groaning as something on the other side tried to force it open.
I pushed the door with my shoulder and held it shut.
Her breathing turned to soft, raspy laughter.
The handle rattled — violently now.
She wasn’t knocking anymore.
She was trying to get in.
For the first time in my life, I prayed — out loud — to anything that would listen.
And then:
Silence.
The handle stopped moving.
Her breathing faded.
Eventually, the footsteps retreated — up the hallway — then back up the attic stairs.
The attic door slammed shut.
THE ESCAPE
At sunrise, I left.
I didn’t wait for Mr. Varma. I didn’t collect my safety deposit. I didn’t even look toward the attic stairs.
I walked out and never went back.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Two weeks later, a courier arrived at my new flat with a parcel — no sender name, no return address.
Inside was the safety deposit money…
and a photograph.
The hallway shot I took — the one with the silhouette — printed full size.
But this time, the figure wasn’t just standing.
She was closer.
Her hair still covered her face, but her head was tilted upward.
As if looking at the camera.
As if she knew I could see her.
And at the bottom of the photo, in shaky handwriting, were three words:
“You heard me.”
THE LAST NIGHTMARE
Ever since that night, I hear tapping sometimes when I’m alone.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
Tap… tap… tap.
Sometimes it comes from the ceiling. Sometimes the walls. Sometimes…
from inside the wardrobe.
Last week, I woke up at 3:17 AM. My room was dark, but I could hear breathing — low, harsh, familiar.
Then,
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My bedroom door handle began to turn.
Slowly.
Silently.
And before I could move, before I could breathe, a hoarse whisper slipped through the darkness:
“Let me out.”