The previous tenant of my new flat died there. It wasn’t until I moved in that I realised how they died.

I moved in at the end of January. The landlord assured me that everything was square and that there was nothing to worry about. It had been six months since the death but I still found myself worrying. I’d always been afraid of ghosts, still was at twenty four. I had to live somewhere though and the price was too good to turn down.<br><br>The place itself was great. Two bedrooms with a kitchen living room combo. The bathroom and balcony were a good size too. And it was close to the station, and the high street. Overall, I was excited to live there.<br><br>I just wish I had known how the tenant had died. If only to prepare myself mentally. But strangely, the landlord didn’t think that was important, it was a ‘tragedy’ he said, and that I shouldn’t worry myself about it. I had heard that a family had been living there when it happened. And that a father had gone crazy and stabbed his daughter to death in her room. I didn’t see how that worked in my flat though. I was sure that I didn’t have an extra bedroom. <br><br>One night I woke up to the neighbourhood watch guy pounding on my door. He asked me what I was doing, while staring at me with the most terrifying expression. I assured him I’d done nothing. He told me to stop it, to ‘just end it already’. I didn’t know what he was talking about so I tried to get him to go away. I asked him if he had a problem with me living there. He responded with ‘not if you plan on killing yourself too’. I was shocked. In my confusion I tried to respond. But he interrupted me and called me sick. He just turned around and left.<br><br>I closed the door and checked the lock. It was still stuck in place, just like it had been since moving in. I had a feeling about it and so I checked the other door. It was stuck closed just like the back door. I thought that was strange but it made me feel a little better. I went back to bed.<br><br>The next day I rang the landlord asking why the doors were stuck. He apologised and said that he had ‘forgotten to replace them’. He explained that the doors had been damaged and the last doors warped in the weather. That they would need to be replaced. He said he’d send a handyman tomorrow to take a look. I thanked him and went about my day.<br><br>That night I woke up to a sound. It sounded like scratching. I looked around the room and found that it was coming from the walls. The scratching was coming from the walls. I sat bolt upright and listened. It sounded like fingernails being dragged down a chalkboard. My skin crawled with goosebumps. I threw my covers off me and got out of bed. My first thought was to check for mice, maybe that was it. But I was sure it was a person. It didn’t sound like an animal. I slowly opened the back door. And that’s when I saw it.<br><br>The scratching was coming from the walls of my living room, kitchen and bedroom. It sounded like someone was scratching to get out. I had been told there were only two bedrooms. But it sounded like there were more. It sounded like there were people trapped in the walls. I tried to slowly back away from the door. But my legs were frozen. I tried to call for help but my voice was barely a whisper. I managed to say ‘hello?’ But my voice cracked. I gulped.<br><br>The scratching stopped. There was a pause. Then something thumped the back door. It thumped so hard that the whole flat shook. I shit myself. I got my phone out and dialled 999. I asked for the police. When they asked what was wrong I couldn’t answer. I just groaned. They asked if I was okay. I groaned again and then hung up. I was an idiot. I slowly crept back to bed and locked the door. I laid in bed for the rest of the night, paranoid and shit scared. I didn’t even move from the bed until the handyman came the next day.<br><br>He was a big burly guy, with bright red hair. He looked at the back door and said it was fine. That it was normal wear and tear. I told him what had happened. He looked at me in the same way the neighbourhood watch guy had. He called me sick. Then he left. I was confused. He didn’t replace the door. He just left.<br><br>I was going to ring the landlord but as I was picking up the receiver, the phone rang itself. I picked it up. He was on the other end. He explained that the handyman hadn’t replaced the door because he didn’t need to. It was fine. I tried to explain what happened. He interrupted me. He explained that the house didn’t have three bedrooms, it had four. He explained that they didn’t want anyone knowing what really happened. He told me that a mother and father were arguing. The father got angry and killed his daughter, and his son. They were only teenagers.<br><br>The place where it happened had to be covered up. The landlord told me that the only thing to do was to place new walls over the old ones. That they had to cover the rooms. They had to cover where the children died. He explained that the back door was where the son was killed. The father had stabbed him and left him on the balcony. He explained that the balcony was where they found his son, he was already dead.<br><br>The landlord told me that I had to move out. He offered to pay for a hotel for me and to pay me to keep quiet. I told him I wasn’t going to tell anyone. He gave me an address to send my things to. I hung up and packed my bags. I moved to a different part of the city. I lived in a hotel for a while. I moved into a new flat, in a new area. I’d lived there for six months before I heard anything from the landlord. He sent me a card with my new address. No stamp, just the words ‘my sincerest condolences’ written in blue pen.