The Tenant Below

I had been living at my address, No. 15, Lovecraft Court, Arkham, for over 6 years and had noticed many people come and go from the various flats below me. Most of them were rented, and there was a regular turnover of occupancy. I lived on the top floor and had 3 floors below me with a total of 3 flats on each floor, which made a total of 3 x 3 x 3 in our block. There was a large metallic post holder situated on the ground floor for each of the occupants to receive their post.

It was easy to notice who was in and who had moved out as the relevant squares containing the post for each flat were often empty for weeks at a time until a new tenant arrived. But in the 6 years I had lived at No. 15, there had been no post for No. 13. Yet I knew that someone was in the flat because of the noise. You see, No. 13 was directly below my flat.

I was in during most evenings unless out for a meal every once in a while with friends from the University. I was a medieval history lecturer. On the weekends, I was at home finishing — or rather struggling to finish — my Doctorate. I kept to a routine. During the day, I would write, and in the evenings I would listen to music. It is my regularity of day and night that began to mark the very strange routine that seemed to emanate from below me.

All was dead quiet during the day, and then at night, I heard the strangest of noises. Scratching. Intense scratching slowly pervaded my own front room and became so loud it seemed to be emanating from the inside of my own flat. As I began to move closer to the source, the source began to move as if aware of my attention, and then this scraping and scratching suddenly ceased.

It happened on successive Sundays in October.

On the third Sunday in October, again during the evening, the noise not of scratching but of screaming came forcing its way into my flat. It was a short but piercing scream, and it was repeated three times in quick succession.

It made my blood run cold, and I immediately rushed downstairs and began to knock frantically at the door. Once. Then twice. Thrice. I hit the hard wooden door with force. But nothing. I called out, but nothing. I listened at the door. No sound. Just me breathing heavily and frustrated at no response.

The door opposite opened. No. 14 had obviously heard me. She asked what had happened, and so I explained. She informed me that she had seen nobody enter or leave the flat since she had moved in over 3 months ago. She thought that the flat was unoccupied. Although she had reported a strange burning smell in the landing as she left for work in the morning. I told her that I hadn't experienced any strange smells, just strange noises from below me in the evenings.

After this strange incident, I had no further instances of noise until approximately a month later, in late November. I remember it well, as I was in a frenzied state, rushing to finish my dissertation. It was on the life and the writings of Hermes Trismegistus. This had truly sapped all of my physical and mental strength, and I was glad to be finished. Or so I thought.

I was unwinding in my flat one evening with a glass or two of red wine when I felt an extreme chill suddenly flow through my apartment. The heating was on full as we were in England experiencing a severe cold snap. Snow had fallen, and temperatures across the land had plummeted. I had warmed up nicely, and the Merlot had helped considerably. The room I was in felt like I was actually sitting outside.

Then, as I got up to check the thermostat, I saw my feet covered in snow and the room had changed. I was now in front of a small hut. I was outside. It was so cold that I was forced to enter and was met with a room full of candles and a burning fire, scorching the very air I was breathing in. Yet there, right next to the fire, was a man, or at the very least, the shape of a man. How he had not caught fire with such heat, I had no answer just then. For I was truly disorientated and believed I must now be dreaming.

However, the man turned to me and I recognised that face. He laughed at me and as he did so, placed his arm and hand into the raging fire. I smelt flesh burn and I felt a searing pain across my forearm. I screamed in agony 3 times. The pain was almost overwhelming. I then turned in great pain and scratched at the door to open it. It opened. And I placed my burning arm into the white, pristine snow. And just as suddenly I fell back into my flat screaming and shouting in pain.

I awoke the next day and prepared to leave for my lectures. As I showered, I noticed a deep scar on my arm. There was no pain but there was something written there which was just about legible. It read,

“As above, So below.”

I knew perfectly well who had written that eight centuries before our time. But I for the life of me could not remember having it tattooed upon my arm. Until I remembered my vivid drunken nightmare. And then I wondered if it had been more.

So I gathered up all my work for my doctorate and burnt it until nothing remained. Yet as I did so, I felt a great pain in my arm and his ancient words came back to me time and time again,

“As above, So below”

Was I now cursed for eternity?

The End.