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The Locked Room in Apartment 3B

I thought I was just renting an apartment. I didn't expect to uncover a secret that someone was willing to kill for.

By AliPublished 7 months ago 3 min read

When I first moved into apartment 3B, I was just looking for peace. After my messy breakup and quitting my job in the same week, I needed a reset. The listing was suspiciously cheap for a place in the city, but I was desperate, and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions.

It was a small but clean one-bedroom on the third floor of an aging brick building. Everything seemed normal, except for one thing: a locked door in the hallway just beside the bathroom.

When I asked the landlord about it during the tour, he said, “Just a storage closet. Nothing in there. Painted shut, honestly.”

I didn’t push it. I had enough skeletons in my own closet to worry about his.

But from the first night, something felt... off.

It started with small sounds. A creaking floorboard. A muffled thump in the hallway. I chalked it up to old pipes and thin walls. But then I started hearing whispers.

At 2:13 a.m. every night, I would wake up. Like clockwork. At first, I thought it was my anxious mind playing tricks on me. Then one night, I pressed my ear to the locked door.

The whispering was clearer now.

A woman’s voice. Soft, almost a lullaby.

But the words made my skin crawl:

“He’s still here. He never left. Don’t open the door.”

I stumbled back, heart pounding. I didn’t sleep at all that night. The next morning, I searched online for anything about the building.

Nothing.

No news articles, no old listings. It was as if apartment 3B didn’t exist. The landlord didn’t have a website. His phone went straight to voicemail.

That night, I left my phone recording near the door.

When I played it back in the morning, there it was—the voice again.

But this time, it ended differently:

“Help me.”

I didn’t know what to do. I thought about moving out, but part of me—maybe the same part that stayed too long in a bad relationship—needed answers.

So I bought a crowbar.

At 2:00 a.m. the next night, I stood in front of the locked door. My hands trembled as I wedged the crowbar into the seam and pushed.

It gave way easier than I expected.

The door swung open into pitch blackness. The air was cold and stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in years. I reached inside and flicked the light switch.

Nothing.

I used my phone’s flashlight to look around.

It was a narrow room, no windows. Old furniture covered in sheets. A broken mirror. And on the far wall, strange symbols scrawled in what looked like—God help me—dried blood.

And in the center of the room... a chair.

With restraints.

Suddenly, I felt something rush past me. Cold. Fast. I dropped the phone, its light spinning across the room.

I picked it up and ran.

I didn’t sleep. I sat on the couch until morning, every light on.

The next day, I went to the local library and asked about the building. A woman behind the counter looked up slowly.

“You live in 3B?” she asked, her voice dropping.

“Yes.”

Her eyes darkened. “A woman disappeared from that apartment ten years ago. The police searched for weeks. Her boyfriend was a suspect, but they never found a body.”

I felt sick.

“Do you know her name?” I asked.

She nodded. “Elena Garcia.”

I froze.

That was the name on the letter I found tucked behind the radiator two nights before. A letter that began with:

"If someone finds this, I didn’t run away. He kept me in the locked room.”

I went back to the apartment and sat in front of the now-open door. Inside, it was cold again. But the voice was gone.

I don’t know why I did it, but I whispered into the dark: “I found your letter, Elena. I believe you.”

And for the first time in nights, I slept through until morning.

The next day, the landlord came by unexpectedly.

He knocked and smiled like always. “Just checking in. Everything okay?”

I nodded. “I opened the locked door,” I said, watching him closely.

His smile twitched.

“There was nothing in there,” I added.

He tilted his head. “Good. It’s just junk anyway.”

He left after that.

That night, the whisper returned—but different now. Peaceful.

“Thank you.”

I moved out two days later. But I sent the letter to the police anonymously, along with pictures of the room. A few weeks later, news broke that a man had been arrested for a ten-year-old missing person case, reopened after new evidence came to light.

His name?

Richard Halloway.

The landlord.

#Suspense #CreepyApartment #TrueCrimeInspired #Mystery #Thriller #DarkSecrets #HauntedPlaces #ApartmentStories #WhispersInTheDark

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About the Creator

Ali

I write true stories that stir emotion, spark curiosity, and stay with you long after the last word. If you love raw moments, unexpected twists, and powerful life lessons — you’re in the right place.

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  • Jackson Reed7 months ago

    This story's spooky! I've had my share of strange rental experiences. Can't wait to see what's behind that locked door.

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