The Man in Apartment 4B

The first time I saw the man in Apartment 4B, I knew something was off.

He moved in on a Tuesday afternoon, wearing all black, dragging two suitcases, and refusing help from the building’s doorman. His hair was slicked back, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, even though it was cloudy. No one saw a moving truck. No one knew his name.

For weeks, he kept to himself. Never spoke. Never smiled. He left his apartment at exactly 11:37 PM every night, walked down the hall in silence, and returned before dawn. I only knew that because I live in 4A—directly across from his door. I work from home, and insomnia has made me a late-night observer of the world.

But this wasn’t normal.

Something in the Air

We started calling him “Phantom Man” in the building group chat. Some thought he was ex-military. Others joked that he was a vampire or a contract killer. No packages ever arrived. No guests ever visited. And yet, something about his presence made the entire fourth floor feel colder.

Once, I passed him in the hallway. I smiled politely and said, “Good evening.”

He stopped. Tilted his head slowly toward me. Then kept walking without saying a word.

Something about that pause—calculated and precise—sent a chill down my spine.

The Scream

Three weeks after he moved in, the scream shattered the silence.

It was 3:14 AM. I was watching a movie with my headphones on when I heard it—raw, blood-curdling, and unmistakably real. I tore off my headphones and ran to the door. It had come from Apartment 4B.

I opened my door just in time to see his—4B—slam shut.

I froze. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my ears.

Should I call the police? Should I knock?

I chose fear. I locked my door and sat against it until sunrise.

An Investigation

The next day, I couldn’t shake it. I told Mrs. DeLuca in 4C what I heard. She clutched her rosary and said, “I always knew there was something wrong with that man.”

The doorman, Jose, said he saw the man leave that morning—at 4:00 AM, like always—but there was no sign of distress. No blood. No panic.

That night, I left a note on his door:

“Hi. I live next door. I heard something strange last night and just wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

The note was gone the next morning. No reply.

The Sound from the Wall

Two nights later, the knocking began.

Not on my door—inside the wall.

It started at 1:12 AM. Faint. Rhythmic. As if someone were tapping from the other side with their fingernails. I turned off all electronics and pressed my ear against the wall.

Tap. Tap. Tap… Pause. Tap-tap-tap.

It didn’t sound like pipes. It was deliberate.

I knocked back, gently.

Nothing.

Then—three taps.

I backed away from the wall. What the hell was going on?

The Hidden Room

Fueled by fear and curiosity, I did something I never imagined: I pulled out the building's old blueprint online.

What I found chilled me more than the knocking.

Apartment 4B had a hidden room.

The original layout included a small utility space between 4A and 4B—an odd-shaped triangle sealed off in renovations. It wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

And yet…I could hear it. Something—or someone—was in there.

Confrontation

The next night, I waited by my peephole. At 11:37 PM, true to routine, the man in 4B stepped out. Same black clothes. Same silence.

I opened my door.

“Excuse me,” I said, louder this time. “I need to talk to you.”

He stopped. Slowly turned.

“I heard something inside your apartment. A scream. Tapping. What’s going on?”

He stared at me, unblinking.

Then he said something that chilled me to my bones:

“You’re not supposed to hear that.”

And he walked away.

The Discovery

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The tapping began again, and this time I followed it. I measured the wall, compared it to the blueprint, and realized the utility closet in my apartment—long sealed and unused—shared the same hidden space.

I broke through the drywall.

It was easier than I thought. One panel cracked, then another. And behind it… darkness. A narrow crawlspace between the two apartments.

And in it, a girl. No older than twelve.

The Girl in the Wall

She was dirty, trembling, with matted hair and hollow eyes. She didn’t speak—just stared at me with panic and relief all at once. I called 911 immediately.

When the police arrived, they found more than just the girl.

They found chains. A cot. Empty food trays. A video camera.

The man in 4B never returned.

Who Was He?

The investigation made the news.

The girl had been missing for three months. Her name was Emily. She had vanished two states over while walking home from school. No one knew how she ended up in our building.

The man’s apartment was nearly empty—just a mattress, a black duffel bag, and hundreds of labeled VHS tapes.

Only a few of them have been released to the public. The rest remain under federal investigation.

His name, it turns out, wasn’t on the lease. The ID he used was fake. Security footage showed his face—but facial recognition came up with nothing. He was a ghost.

A Year Later

Apartment 4B is still vacant. The building owner says no one wants to live there.

Sometimes, late at night, I still hear tapping. But now, it feels like a thank-you.

Emily is safe, now living with her aunt. We write letters occasionally. Her last one ended with:

“Thank you for listening when no one else could.”

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