Elena Sinclair pulled her beat-up sedan into the narrow alley behind the Hawthorne Arms, the engine coughing its last as she killed the ignition. The building loomed above her, a five-story relic of faded brick and iron fire escapes, its windows like empty eyes staring down. It was perfect—or so the ad promised. Spacious one-bedroom, $800 a month, utilities included. In this city, that was a miracle.
She hauled her boxes up the creaking stairs to unit 3C, the super, Mr. Griggs, trailing behind with a master key jangling in his gnarled hand. He was a wiry man in his sixties, skin sallow, eyes darting like he expected something to lunge from the shadows. ‘Nice place,’ he rasped, unlocking the door. ‘Been empty a while. You’ll settle right in.’
The apartment smelled of dust and something sharper, metallic, like old blood. High ceilings, hardwood floors warped by time, wallpaper peeling in delicate curls. Elena forced a smile. Practicality had always been her armor. Divorced at 32, freelance editor scraping by—she needed this.
That night, as rain pattered against the single-pane window, she lay on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling. The walls seemed to shift, a subtle undulation like breathing. She chalked it up to exhaustion, the play of streetlight shadows. Sleep came in fits, broken by groans from the pipes.
Morning brought clarity. She unpacked methodically: bookshelves lined with dog-eared novels, laptop on the wobbly desk by the alley window, coffee maker gurgling to life. The neighbors were quiet—no slamming doors, no arguments. Bliss.
By evening, a knock. Mrs. Harrow from 3B, a frail woman with parchment skin and teeth like piano keys gone yellow. ‘Welcome, dear,’ she cooed, thrusting a plate of cookies. ‘We look after our own here.’ Elena nibbled one—dry, tasting faintly of mildew—but thanked her profusely. Mrs. Harrow’s eyes lingered too long, unblinking.
Week one blurred into routine. Work calls by day, editing manuscripts late into night. But the unease gnawed. Mirrors showed her face paler, cheekbones sharper. ‘Stress,’ she muttered, splashing water on her face. The faucet ran rusty at first, then clear, but with a whispery undertone, like voices bubbling up.
The walls sighed. Soft at first, like wind slipping through cracks. ‘Stay,’ it breathed one night as she brushed her teeth. She froze, toothbrush foaming. Imagination, surely. She cranked the radio, but the static hissed words: ‘Belong…’
She met others. In the lobby, a young man from 4A, gaunt, fingers twitching. ‘New?’ he asked, voice flat. ‘Don’t fight it.’ Elena laughed nervously, sidestepping to the stairs.
Her skin itched. Scratching arms left welts that vanished by morning, but the sensation deepened, as if something wriggled beneath. Dreams plagued her: the building’s corridors stretching infinitely, doors opening to rooms of writhing flesh, her body dissolving into mortar.
Week two, the whispers solidified. Lying in bed, eyes wide, she heard them clearly from the walls. ‘You’re home now. No leaving.’ She bolted up, heart hammering, and pounded on Mrs. Harrow’s door. The old woman answered, smile serene. ‘It’s nothing, dear. The Hawthorne talks to all newcomers. You’ll learn to love it.’
Elena called Griggs. ‘Pipes, probably,’ he grunted over the line. ‘Happens to everyone. Stay put.’ His tone brooked no argument.
She tried leaving for groceries; the front door stuck, latch gummy. Yanking harder, it gave, but a cold draft slithered around her ankles like fingers. Outside, the city buzzed normal, but returning, the threshold felt viscous, reluctant to release her back in.
Aggression simmered. At work, she snapped at a client over email. Fantasies flickered: slamming Mrs. Harrow’s head against the wall, watching the young man’s eyes bulge as she squeezed. She recoiled, horrified. Where did that come from?
The wallpaper bubbled one evening, damp patches blooming like bruises. Tentatively, she peeled a corner. Beneath, not plaster, but a membrane, veined and pulsing faintly. Warm to the touch. She recoiled, handprint lingering red on the gray flesh.
Nights worsened. Sleepwalking, she woke clawing at her arms, nails bloody, skin flaking to reveal smoother, grayer dermis underneath. The mirror showed eyes not her own—too wide, too hungry.
Week three, isolation set in. Phone died, charger sparking. Internet flickered out. She banged on neighbors’ doors; no answer, but shadows shifted behind peepholes. The whispers chanted now: ‘Join us. Become.’
Desperation peaked. She packed a bag, smashed the window with a chair—glass shattered, but bars manifested from nowhere, iron vines twisting shut. The door to the hallway flew open on its own, revealing a procession: Mrs. Harrow, the young man, Griggs, all shuffling forward, skin sloughing, eyes milky with adoration.
‘Welcome home,’ they intoned in unison.
Elena fled down the hall, stairs groaning underfoot. Basement door ajar, she tumbled into darkness, flashlight app casting jittery beams. Dusty files, ledgers from 1892. Hawthorne Arms: built over a forgotten plague pit, where the diseased were bricked alive. Rumors of corruption, residents vanishing into the structure itself.
A ledger: names, dates. Griggs, 1957. Harrow, 1923. Her own—Elena Sinclair, 2023. But flipping back, another Elena, 1985. 1962. 1934. Faces in faded photos: hers, exact, on women of varying ages, all staring with that same hungry gaze.
Horror dawned. The whispers roared: ‘You never left. You are us. We are you.’
She clawed at the ledger, memories fracturing. Not divorce, not freelance—false veneers. She was the first, bricked in during the plague, soul splintered, reborn endlessly as ‘new tenants’ to lure more, corrupt them into extensions. Mrs. Harrow was her echo from 1923, the young man her 1985 self. Griggs, caretaker of her prison.
The walls closed in, fleshy now, tendrils reaching. Her skin split fully, gray merging with gray. But awareness lingered, eternal. Upstairs, a knock echoed—new tenant, practical, just like ‘she’ had been.
‘Welcome,’ her many mouths would whisper. ‘You’ll love it here.’