When I moved into the old house near campus, the rent was unbelievably cheap. “You’ll be sharing with one roommate,” the landlord said. “She’s quiet.”
Her name was Mara. Pale, thin, and always wearing a grey hoodie, she rarely left her room. I’d hear her muttering softly at night, sometimes scratching at the walls. I thought maybe she was just dealing with anxiety. We all have our stuff.
The weirdest part? Her door was always locked. One night, I noticed light flickering under it like candlelight and a strange smell of burnt herbs. I knocked. Silence. I shrugged and walked away.
A week later, I woke up at 3:13 AM to whispers. They weren’t coming from Mara’s room but from mine. When I turned on the light, no one was there. I barely slept.
Then, one morning, I saw her in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling and chanting softly in a language I didn’t recognize. She smiled at me with hollow eyes and said, “Don’t worry. He’s almost here.”
I moved out the next day.
Two weeks later, I went back to get the last of my boxes. The landlord looked confused.
“There’s no Mara here,” he said. “You were the only tenant. That room’s been empty for months.”