The Housemate Who Wasn't Supposed to Be There

The old Victorian house creaked and groaned, a symphony of settling wood and whispering drafts. It was a house that held stories, a house that breathed history. I, Sarah, a freelance photographer, had moved into the attic apartment, drawn by the affordable rent and the promise of a quiet space to work. My housemates, a diverse group of artists and students, were friendly enough, but I mostly kept to myself, preferring the solitude of my attic studio.

One evening, I returned home late, the city lights blurring into a hazy glow. As I climbed the creaking stairs to my attic, I noticed a light spilling from under one of the downstairs bedroom doors. It was a room I knew was vacant, the previous tenant having moved out weeks ago.

Curiosity piqued, I paused, listening. There was a faint sound, a soft rustling, like pages turning. I gently pushed the door open.

Inside, a figure sat at the desk, bathed in the warm glow of a desk lamp. It was a young woman, her face obscured by a cascade of dark hair. She was intently focused on a worn leather-bound journal.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the silent room.

The woman startled, her head snapping up. Her eyes, wide and luminous, met mine. A flicker of something, fear perhaps, crossed her face.

"I… I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to disturb anything."

She quickly closed the journal, her hands trembling.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice firm but gentle. "And what are you doing here?"

"My name is Elara," she said, her voice still trembling. "I… I used to live here."

"Used to?" I raised an eyebrow. "This room was vacant."

"I know," she said, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I… I came back to retrieve something. Something I left behind."

She gestured towards the journal. "This. It belonged to my grandmother. She lived in this house many years ago."

Elara's story was intriguing. She spoke of her grandmother, a woman named Isolde, who had been a writer and a collector of local folklore. Isolde had lived in the house during the early 20th century, a time when the neighborhood was a hub of artists and intellectuals.

"She wrote about the house, about the stories it held," Elara said, her voice gaining confidence. "She believed that houses, especially old ones, retain the energy of the people who lived within them."

I was fascinated. Elara's story resonated with my own fascination with the house's history. I asked her about the journal, about the stories her grandmother had written.

"They're mostly folk tales, local legends," Elara said. "But some of them… they're unsettling. Stories of hidden passages, of unexplained occurrences, of a presence that lingers within these walls."

As Elara spoke, I felt a chill run down my spine. The house, with its creaking floors and whispering drafts, suddenly seemed less charming, more… ominous.

I asked Elara if she had experienced anything strange while she was in the house.

"Yes," she said, her voice barely audible. "I felt… watched. Like there was someone else here, someone I couldn't see."

She told me about strange noises, shadows that moved when no one was there, a feeling of unease that permeated the house.

"I thought it was just my imagination," she said. "But now… I'm not so sure."

Elara's presence in the house, her connection to its history, had stirred something within me, a sense of unease, a feeling that we were not alone.

I decided to investigate further. I asked Elara if I could read her grandmother's journal. She hesitated, then nodded.

The journal was filled with Isolde's elegant handwriting, her words weaving tales of local legends and personal experiences. She wrote about the house, about its hidden corners, its secret passages. She wrote about a presence, a spirit that lingered within the walls.

One entry, in particular, caught my attention. Isolde wrote about a hidden room, a room that was not on the house's blueprints. A room that was said to hold a dark secret.

Could this be the source of the strange occurrences, the feeling of being watched?

Elara and I decided to search for the hidden room. We explored the house, examining every nook and cranny. We found nothing.

Then, we noticed something odd about the library. One of the bookshelves seemed slightly out of place. We pushed on it, and it swung open, revealing a hidden passage.

The passage led to a small, dusty room. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and damp wood. In the center of the room, there was a large, ornate mirror.

As we approached the mirror, we saw a figure reflected in its surface. It was a woman, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes filled with sorrow.

Elara gasped. "It's her," she whispered. "It's my grandmother."

The figure in the mirror faded, then reappeared, its image flickering like a ghost.

Then, the mirror began to speak. A voice, soft and ethereal, filled the room.

"I'm trapped," the voice said. "Trapped within these walls. I need your help."

The voice was Isolde's, Elara's grandmother. She was trapped, her spirit bound to the house, to the hidden room.

We learned that Isolde had been working on a powerful ritual, a ritual to bind a spirit, to control it. But the ritual had gone wrong, trapping her instead.

We had to break the ritual, to free Isolde's spirit.

We found Isolde’s ritual notes hidden within the room, and followed the instructions, using her journal as a guide. The mirror began to shake, and the room filled with a blinding light.

When the light subsided, the mirror was blank. Isolde’s voice was gone.

Elara and I left the hidden room, the bookshelf closing behind us. The house felt different, lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

Elara stayed for a few days, helping me understand the house and its history. She told me the stories of the house, the legends her grandmother had collected.

Then, she left, leaving me with the journal, the stories, and the knowledge that some housemates are not of this world.