The Stranger in Apartment 406

When Rayan moved into Apartment 406, he believed the hardest part would be adjusting to living alone. The building was old but affordable, nestled between two busy streets in the city center. The landlord described it as “quiet” and “mostly occupied by professionals,” which suited Rayan perfectly. He wanted peace, a place to focus on his new job and forget the chaos of his past. At first, everything seemed normal. He unpacked essentials, ordered takeout, and fell asleep on a mattress placed on the floor. The hum of distant traffic seeped faintly through the window, and the apartment felt like the safe cocoon he had longed for.

It all changed on the second night. Rayan woke to a faint noise, almost imperceptible, like the soft drag of shoes across the floor. He assumed it was the building settling or a neighbor walking past, though the sound seemed to come from inside his apartment. He shook his head and returned to bed, telling himself he was imagining things. But in the morning, he noticed the small kitchen cabinet slightly open. He was certain he had closed it before going to sleep. The memory was vivid. He closed it again and tried to convince himself it was nothing, but an uneasy feeling had settled in his chest.

Over the next two nights, oddities increased. The bathroom mirror, wiped clean before he went to bed, was streaked again in the morning, as if someone had pressed their hands against it. A light he was sure he had switched off flickered back on, and he began hearing whispers he couldn’t identify. They weren’t words at first, just subtle sounds that seemed too deliberate to be coincidental. Sleep became shallow. Every creak of the floorboards made him tense. Logic offered no comfort, and he realized that he was living in a space that no longer felt fully his own.

Determined to catch whoever—or whatever—was in the apartment, Rayan devised a simple test. He placed a chair behind the front door so that any movement would scrape it across the floor. He sprinkled a thin line of flour across the kitchen entrance to detect footprints. He sat in his bed, holding his breath, waiting. At 3:12 a.m., the faintest shuffle woke him. It came from the living room. His pulse raced as he grabbed his phone, the only source of light, and slowly walked toward the noise. Nothing appeared disturbed. The chair was still behind the door, and the flour remained untouched.

Then Rayan noticed it: the bedroom door, which he remembered leaving wide open, was now closed. His hands shook as he approached. The closet door inside, which he had also left shut, was now ajar.

Suddenly, a whisper brushed against his ear: “I’m still here.” He spun around, phone light scanning every corner, but the room appeared empty. The apartment felt heavier, colder, oppressive. Adrenaline and fear left him trembling. Without thinking, he bolted to the front door, yanking it open and rushing into the hallway. The corridor lights flickered dimly, and he pounded on a neighbor’s door. An elderly woman answered, concerned. He explained that someone was in 406. Her face darkened, and after a pause, she said softly, “The last tenant said the same thing. He left in the middle of the night. He never knew why.”

Rayan’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean? Who’s living there?” she replied, her eyes darting down the hall. Before he could ask more, the door to his apartment creaked open behind him. Slowly. Deliberately. He froze as the lights flickered once and then went out completely. A heavy, unnatural darkness filled the hallway, and a cold voice seemed to whisper from the shadows: “Finally, you see me.” Rayan’s legs gave way, and he realized with horror that he was no longer alone in Apartment 406.