“Letters from the Dead Room”

By Yasir Zeb

I moved into Apartment 3B of the Camber well Arms on a bitter Tuesday in November, the kind of day where even the clouds look like they’ve given up. The building had been sitting half-empty for years, cloaked in a silence that felt too deliberate. It was cheap, and I was broke. The landlord didn’t ask many questions. Neither did I.

The place smelled faintly of old paper and mildew, but it had character. Floorboards that creaked like nervous whispers, wallpaper that curled at the edges like old photographs. I was barely unpacked when the first letter arrived.

It wasn’t addressed to me.

To: Sylvia Dane.

There was no return address.

Curious, I opened it. I shouldn’t have—but I did.

“Sylvia,

The dreams have started again. The one with the window open. The one where someone is calling your name from the closet. Don’t ignore them this time. You know what happens when you ignore them.

L.”

My skin prickled. I reread it twice. There was something oddly present about it. I figured maybe it was a creative writing prank. College kids maybe. But I Googled the name "Sylvia Dane" out of boredom that night.

She’d gone missing in 2007. Last known address: Camber well Arms, Apartment 3B.

I slept with the hallway light on.

The next letter came two days later.

To: Marcus K. Banning.

“Marcus,

You promised you wouldn’t open the trapdoor. I heard it creak from upstairs. You let it breathe again. You fed it. You remember what it did to her, don’t you?

L.”

My hands trembled as I held the envelope. Marcus Banning had lived here in 1994. Also vanished without a trace. I found a small newspaper clipping online—no leads, no body. Just gone.

I started watching the corners of the room more closely. Shadows moved differently. The kitchen faucet dripped in a rhythm that felt too… purposeful.

The third letter came the following week.

This time, it had my name on it.

To: Thomas E. Lock hart.

I didn’t move for five full minutes.

“Thomas,

You shouldn’t have read the others. Now it knows your name. Now it can find you. Leave the light on tonight. Don’t answer if it knocks. You’ll hear scratching from under the floor soon. Whatever you do, don’t talk back.

L.”

I dropped the letter like it burned me. The hallway light flickered off.

There was no wind. No draft. Just that sudden, sharp plunge into dark.

And then—I heard it. A scratch. Faint, deliberate. Beneath the floorboards by the old radiator. My body locked up. I grabbed my keys and ran down to the street, heart pounding like footsteps too close behind.

I booked a room at a motel for the night. Cheap, anonymous, safe.

I returned the next morning with coffee and denial. Maybe it was a rat. Or a broken pipe.

I didn’t check the mailbox.

That night, while brushing my teeth, I noticed something strange. The mirror was fogged—but there was no steam. I hadn’t run the hot water.

In the canter of the mirror, written in a shaky finger:

"It wants to remember through you."

I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I peeled back the rug by the radiator and found what I didn’t want to: a trapdoor. Small. Locked with an iron latch rusted into place.

I didn’t open it.

Instead, I packed. I planned to leave by morning. Whatever rent I’d lose wasn’t worth the cost of staying. I told myself the place was just weird. Old buildings groan. Letters get miss eliverad. Mirrors fog from something.

But at 2:13 a.m., I woke to the sound of the latch clicking open. I didn’t go to check. I couldn’t.

Then came the knock.

Not from the door.

From under the floorboards.

Slow.

Measured.

Like knuckles wrapped in centuries of silence.

I shut my eyes and prayed to every god I’d never believed in.

When morning came, I grabbed my bag and bolted.

As I passed the mailboxes, I saw one last envelope poking out of mine.

I left it there.

I don’t need to know what it says.

But sometimes, late at night in my new apartment across the city, I still hear scratching. Still see faint fog on the mirror. And once—I swear—I saw a letter with no address slip itself through the crack under my door.

I didn’t open it.

I won’t.

But I still wonder who L. is.

And what it wants me to remember.