The Haunting of Alex Graves

“The Haunting of Alex Graves” by Edward J McCoul

Alex Graves sat alone in the dimly lit office of his small apartment, a mug of cold coffee on his desk and the quiet hum of the city in the distance. He hadn’t been able to sleep in days, and tonight was no different. The only sound louder than his racing thoughts was the echo of footsteps that didn’t belong to him.

He looked around the room, eyes narrowing at the shadows dancing in the corners. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard them. It was always the same: a faint tapping, as if someone were pacing just behind him. But each time he turned, there was nothing there.

This had all started a few weeks ago, when Alex took an old photograph from an abandoned building for his art project. He remembered the eerie sensation that washed over him the moment he touched it—a shiver that crawled up his spine, making the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was a black-and-white portrait of a young woman, her eyes dark and full of secrets. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but since then, strange things had been happening.

The footsteps grew louder, breaking his thoughts. They sounded closer, more deliberate, like someone dragging their feet on the hardwood floor. Alex clenched his fists, his breathing shallow. “Who’s there?” he whispered, barely audible.

Silence.

He exhaled, trying to convince himself it was all in his head. But as he turned back to his computer, a chilling breeze drifted past him, carrying the faint smell of lavender and something rotten. He froze, his mind racing with every ghost story he’d ever heard. He glanced at the photograph lying on his desk, the woman’s face staring back at him, her expression unreadable.

He had researched the woman, hoping to find something interesting for his project, but there was nothing. No name, no date, just an address scrawled on the back of the photograph: “512 Crane Avenue.” The address hadn’t been enough to go on, but Alex felt an unexplainable urge to dig deeper. And now, as the footsteps continued to taunt him, he wondered if he’d gone too far.

Alex decided he’d had enough. He grabbed his coat and the photograph, intending to return it to the building where he’d found it. Maybe this would put an end to the haunting.

It was past midnight when he reached 512 Crane Avenue, a decrepit building with boarded-up windows and ivy crawling up its walls. The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the abandoned structure. Alex hesitated, a sense of dread settling in his gut. He could almost feel a presence waiting for him inside, something watching and waiting.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door. It creaked loudly, and he winced as the sound echoed through the empty halls. The air was thick and musty, carrying that same unsettling scent of lavender and decay. He held the photograph tightly, feeling its weight in his hand, as if it had somehow grown heavier since he’d left his apartment.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice barely a whisper. The only response was the steady drip of water from somewhere deep within the building.

He moved down the hallway, his footsteps echoing. Shadows seemed to flicker at the edges of his vision, and every corner held an unseen menace. He felt a chill crawl up his spine, like cold fingers brushing against his skin. He stopped, looking around. “This isn’t real,” he muttered, trying to convince himself.

But then he heard it—the faint sound of a woman crying. It was soft, almost a whisper, and it was coming from deeper inside. His heart pounded, but something compelled him to follow the sound, as if he had no choice in the matter.

He reached the end of the hallway, where an old, faded door waited. The crying was louder here, more desperate. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was empty, except for a broken mirror on the wall and a single chair in the center. He scanned the room, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. Still, the crying continued, filling the small space with sorrow and despair. He looked at the mirror, and his stomach twisted.

In the reflection, the woman from the photograph stood behind him, her face partially obscured by long, dark hair. Her eyes met his in the mirror, and Alex felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as if he were staring into the eyes of death itself.

He spun around, but the room was empty.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “What do you want from me?”

The crying stopped. The silence was deafening.

And then, just as he was about to turn and run, he heard her voice—soft, barely more than a whisper.

“Find me.”

Alex stumbled out of the building, gasping for breath. The night air felt suffocating, and his mind raced with questions. Who was she? What did she mean by “find me”? He couldn’t shake the image of her eyes staring back at him from the mirror. There was something deeply wrong about this haunting, something more than a restless spirit. This was a cry for help.

Determined to get answers, he spent the next few days researching 512 Crane Avenue, the photograph, and anything that could explain the haunting. He uncovered an old newspaper article about a woman named Eliza Harper who had gone missing years ago. The article included a photograph of her—she was the woman in his photograph. She had vanished under mysterious circumstances, and her body was never found.

The words from the article stuck with him: “Her body was never found.”

That night, Alex returned to the building, this time with a flashlight and a shovel. He had a hunch that Eliza was buried somewhere inside, and if he could find her, maybe he could put her spirit to rest.

He entered the building and made his way back to the room with the broken mirror. He felt a strange pull toward the center of the room, as if something were calling to him. Kneeling down, he began to dig.

Hours passed, and he was beginning to lose hope when his shovel struck something hard. Heart pounding, he cleared away the dirt to reveal a small, wooden box. It was old and worn, the wood splintered and rotting. He opened it carefully, revealing a collection of letters, each one addressed to Eliza Harper.

As he read through the letters, a disturbing story began to unfold. Eliza had been in a relationship with a man named Charles, who had become increasingly controlling and violent. The letters spoke of her fear, her desperation to escape, and finally, a plea for help that was never answered.

The last letter was different—it was written by Charles, a twisted confession that he had “taken care of” Eliza because she had tried to leave him. The final words sent a shiver down Alex’s spine: “She’ll never leave me. Not in life, and not in death.”

He dropped the letter, his mind reeling. Eliza’s spirit wasn’t just haunting him—she was trapped, bound to the building by the twisted love of a man who wouldn’t let her go, even in death.

A sudden cold filled the room, and Alex knew he wasn’t alone. He turned slowly, his heart pounding as he came face-to-face with Charles.

The man’s ghost was tall and thin, his face twisted in a grotesque smile. His eyes were cold and empty, filled with a hatred that had transcended death itself.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Charles hissed, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.

Alex took a step back, clutching the photograph in his hand. “I’m here to help Eliza,” he said, his voice trembling. “She deserves to be free.”

Charles’s smile faded, replaced by a look of pure rage. “She’s mine,” he snarled, lunging toward Alex.

Alex stumbled backward, tripping over the shovel. He scrambled to his feet, backing away as Charles advanced, his ghostly form flickering in the dim light. Desperation filled Alex’s chest, and he knew he had only one chance to end this.

He held up the photograph, Eliza’s face staring back at him, and shouted, “Eliza! I know you’re here! You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. You can leave.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a faint light appeared beside him, and Eliza’s spirit materialized. She looked at Charles, her face a mix of fear and defiance.

“You don’t own me anymore,” she whispered, her voice strong.

Charles’s face twisted with fury, but he seemed to weaken, his form flickering as Eliza’s spirit grew brighter. She reached out, touching his face with a gentleness that belied the horror he had inflicted upon her.

“Goodbye, Charles,” she said softly.

With a final, anguished scream, Charles’s spirit dissolved, his twisted soul finally banished from the world. Eliza turned to Alex, her expression softening.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her form fading into the light.

And then, she was gone.

Alex left the building just as the sun began to rise, the weight of the photograph finally lifted from his shoulders. He knew he’d never be the same after what he’d seen, but he felt a strange sense of peace.

As he walked away, he glanced back at the building one last time. The shadowy figure of a woman stood in the window, watching him with a gentle smile.

And for the first time since he’d taken the photograph, he felt like he could finally rest.