Lavender and Loneliness, The Ghost in Apartment 3B
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 898
The apartment building on Maple Street had its quirks, but Lena had learned to live with them. The ancient pipes clanged like a drumline at 3 a.m., the elevator creaked like it had a death wish, and Mrs. Dempsey on the first floor always burned toast at the exact moment Lena left for work.
But Apartment 3B? That was a whole different kind of weird.
The first time Lena noticed it, she was brushing her teeth. A faint scent crept into the bathroom, curling around her like an unwelcome hug: lavender, mothballs, and something sharper—burnt toast, maybe? It tickled the back of her throat, and she gagged, spitting toothpaste into the sink.
“Great,” she muttered, fanning the air. “Haunted by Glade plug-ins.”
She shrugged it off, but the smell didn’t. It came back every night, drifting through the vents like clockwork. And then there were the other things: her fridge door swinging open on its own, the microwave beeping in the middle of the night, and the lights flickering in a rhythm that almost felt deliberate.
One night, after her TV shut off mid-binge, Lena grabbed her phone and texted her best friend.
Lena: My apartment is haunted.
Callie: Congrats, you’ve finally hit rom-com protagonist status. Is he hot?
Lena: It smells like burnt toast and mothballs. Does that sound hot to you?
Callie: Everyone’s got their type.
***
The next day, Lena cornered Mr. Samuels, the building’s landlord, in the lobby.
“Hey, Mr. Samuels,” she began, trying to sound casual. “What’s the deal with 3B? It’s been empty since I moved in.”
Mr. Samuels frowned, adjusting his suspenders like they were choking him. “3B? No one’s lived there in years. Why do you ask?”
Lena hesitated. “Just... curious. You know, weird noises, strange smells.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s probably just the old plumbing. Nothing to worry about.”
His tone said, Don’t ask more questions.
***
That night, Lena’s curiosity got the better of her. Armed with a flashlight and a lock-picking video she’d watched twice, she slipped into the hallway. The door to 3B was unlocked, which was somehow more unsettling than if it had been bolted shut.
The apartment was eerily untouched, like someone had just stepped out for groceries a decade ago and never returned. A layer of dust coated the furniture, but the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
A knitting basket sat by the armchair, a half-finished scarf spilling out like a frozen moment in time. Lena reached out, brushing her fingers over the yarn. It was soft, surprisingly so.
The sound of a floorboard creaking behind her made her whirl around, flashlight trembling.
“Okay,” she said to the empty room. “If you’re here, now’s your chance. Say something—or, you know, don’t.”
The room didn’t reply, but her flashlight flickered once, twice. She swallowed hard. “Cool. Love that for me.”
She left in a hurry, locking the door behind her.
***
By the time Callie came over for wine and moral support, Lena was unraveling.
“I Googled it,” Lena said, pacing the living room. “The last tenant in 3B was this old woman named Mary Harper. She died in her sleep ten years ago.”
Callie swirled her wine. “So, what, she’s mad you’re not keeping up the rent payments on her behalf?”
Lena stopped pacing. “She’s not angry. She’s... lonely.”
Callie raised an eyebrow. “And you figured this out how? Did she slide you a Post-it from the afterlife?”
“No, it’s just... the way she does things. The smells, the little pranks—they’re not scary, just... attention-seeking.”
“Attention-seeking or ghost-level clingy?”
“Callie.”
“Fine, fine.” Callie set her glass down. “So what are you going to do? Perform a séance? Light some candles and ask her to share her feelings?”
Lena bit her lip. “Actually... yeah.”
***
At 11:37 that night, Lena sat cross-legged on her living room floor, a single candle flickering in front of her.
“Mary,” she said softly, feeling more ridiculous with every word. “If you’re here, I want to help. I know you’re lonely, but this is my home too. Can we... figure something out?”
The air shifted. It wasn’t cold like the ghost stories described; it was warm, almost comforting, like the moment before falling asleep.
The candle flickered wildly, and the faint smell of lavender wrapped around her like a hug.
Then, faintly, a whisper: “Thank you.”
Lena’s breath caught. “For what?”
The whisper didn’t answer, but the feeling lingered—a sense of quiet gratitude.
***
Over the next few weeks, Mary’s antics mellowed. The fridge stayed closed, the lights stopped flickering, and the microwave remained silent. But the lavender scent lingered, soft and comforting, like a houseplant that needed just the right amount of attention.
Lena found herself talking to Mary more, even if she didn’t always get a response. “You’d like Callie,” she said one evening, stirring a pot of soup. “She’s sarcastic, but she means well.”
The vent above her head hummed gently, and Lena smiled.
And one night, as she curled up on the couch with a book, she noticed something new: the scarf from 3B’s knitting basket, now draped over the back of her chair. It was finished.
Lena ran her fingers over the stitches, a lump forming in her throat. “Thanks, Mary,” she whispered.
The candle on her coffee table flickered once, as if to say, You’re welcome.
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