Apartment 6B

James Morgan wasn’t running from anything—at least, that’s what he told himself. A new city, a new job, and a cheap apartment were all part of a fresh start. The building on Grover Street looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the 70s, and the hallway lights flickered as if powered by ghosts.

Still, $400 a month for a one-bedroom in the city? He couldn't say no.

“You’re in 6B,” the landlord muttered, handing him the key. “Just you?”

“Yeah. Just me.”

The landlord hesitated, then added, “Girl before you disappeared. Cops think she just took off. Left her stuff, though. You’ll find some of it in the closet.”

James didn’t care. He was tired, broke, and too cynical for ghost stories.

The apartment itself was dingy but livable. A thin layer of dust coated the floor. There were claw-like scratches on the inside of the bedroom closet, but James assumed they were from a dog. Or maybe a raccoon. Probably nothing.

That night, around 2:13 a.m., he woke up to a faint tapping on the wall next to his bed. He sat up, confused, then laughed it off. The pipes, maybe. Old buildings always make weird noises.

The next night, the tapping came again.

Tap… tap… tap.

It was rhythmic. Deliberate. Coming from the wall directly behind his bed—the one separating 6B from 6A.

The third night, the tapping was joined by something else: a voice.

A whisper. Faint. Female.

“Help me.”

James froze.

He pressed his ear to the wall. Again, the voice: “Help me.”

He pulled away, heart pounding. He was imagining it. Had to be. But it felt real.

The next morning, James knocked on the door of 6A. An elderly woman opened it. Her skin was pale, eyes milky with cataracts. She blinked at him.

“Sorry to bother you,” James said. “Do you hear noises at night? Like tapping or… or whispering?”

Her lips thinned. “That girl in your apartment used to ask the same thing.”

James swallowed. “The one who vanished?”

The woman nodded slowly. “She said someone was talking through the wall. Asking for help. The landlord said she ran off. But I heard her scream. Just once. Never saw her again.”

James backed away, thanking her before hurrying back inside. He couldn’t sleep that night. At 2:13 a.m., like clockwork:

Tap. Tap. Tap.

And then: “Please… help me.”

He snapped. Grabbing a hammer, James tore the plaster from the wall. Dust filled the air, chunks of drywall breaking off in slabs. He kept digging. The noise got louder.

Finally, he uncovered a hidden hollow behind the wall. Inside, crumpled like a broken doll, was a small skeleton wrapped in a rotting dress. Her mouth was open, as if she died mid-scream. A necklace still clung to her collarbone: a silver “L” pendant.

James stumbled back, retching. He ran to call the police—but his phone was dead. He checked the charger. It was working fine.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped. The air turned thick. James turned, and the closet door creaked open by itself.

He stepped closer.

Inside, written in deep red—blood, or something like it—were the words:

“You found me. Now it’s your turn.”

A hand reached from the closet and grabbed his ankle. It was cold. Rotten. Human.

He screamed and pulled away, stumbling backward. But now the shadows in the room twisted, growing longer. The walls started to pulse like living skin.

Then, he felt it—another hand, this time coming up from under the floorboards.

He looked down.

It was his own hand.

Rotten. Decayed. Pulling him in.


---

They found the apartment empty two weeks later. No sign of James. But the neighbors say they hear noises from 6B around 2 a.m.—tapping, whispering, scratching. Sometimes crying. Sometimes laughter.

No one stays long.

The landlord painted over the wall, replaced the floors, and relisted the unit.

$400 a month. All utilities included.

Still available.