The Room That Wasn’t on the FloorPlan

When my mom and I moved into the new apartment, I didn’t think much about the creaky floors or peeling wallpaper. We’d lived in worse. At least this one had heating.

The place was old, tucked between a laundromat and a boarded-up flower shop, but the rent was cheap and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions. Just a quick signature and a muttered warning: “Stay out of the basement. It’s not part of your unit.”

We didn’t even have access to the basement. There was no door to it inside our flat, and the stairs outside were sealed off with wooden boards. I figured it was just storage or something condemned.

The weird part started about two weeks in.

I woke up one night at around 3:17 a.m. — exactly that, every time — to this low humming sound, like a fridge running. But it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It was… beneath me.

I pressed my ear to the floor. Vibration. Faint. Constant.

I asked my mom. She said she didn’t hear anything and to stop “looking for trouble.” That’s her go-to line. But I wasn’t looking. Trouble was humming underneath me.

The next morning, I found something that made my stomach drop.

I was helping my mom clean out one of the drawers in the hallway when I found an old blueprint of the apartment. The layout matched everything — the kitchen, bedrooms, even the tiny closet in my room. But then I saw something strange.

There was a room.

A small one. About the size of a walk-in closet. Right beneath my bedroom.

But here’s the thing: the blueprint labeled it Room 3A.

We lived in Unit 3A.

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That night, the humming was louder. Not shaking-the-walls loud, but enough that I could feel it in my teeth. I didn’t tell my mom. I just got up, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped outside.

The boarded-up basement stairs were still there. But one of the planks was loose — like someone had pulled it off and placed it back just enough to look untouched.

I squeezed through.

The basement smelled like wet dirt and old paper. My flashlight caught shelves of rotted books and boxes full of yellowed newspapers.

But there, at the end of the hallway, was a white door.

Clean. New. Like it had been replaced recently.

On it: a plaque.

3A

I don’t know why I opened it.

The room inside was small, with nothing but a single chair facing the wall. And on that wall, hundreds of tally marks. All scratched deep into the plaster.

There was no window. No lightbulb. Just my flashlight beam, cutting through stale air.

Then the door slammed shut behind me.

I ran back — but there was no handle on the inside.

I pounded. Screamed. Kicked. Nothing.

The humming grew louder. The air started to buzz like a swarm of bees, but slower, deeper, like a vibration in my bones.

And then, I noticed the newest tally on the wall — the freshest scratch. Still white, clean.

Below it, carved shakily:

He doesn’t hear you until you’re quiet.

I held my breath.

And the sound stopped.

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I don’t remember getting out.

I woke up in my bed at 3:17 a.m., fully dressed, flashlight next to me, dead battery.

I told my mom. She looked at me, real slow, and said, “You were in your room all night.”

I ran outside. The boards on the basement were sealed shut — nailed in from the outside.

I never found the blueprint again.

But every night since then, at 3:17 a.m., I hear the humming.

And I count the tallies.

I’m at twelve now.

One more appears every night.

And I haven’t made any of them.

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