"The Apartment Upstairs Was Never Rented"

The Apartment Upstairs Was Never Rented

By Anonymous Submission

I moved into the building on 19th and Hoyt in early November, the kind of cold month that sharpens the edges of everything—especially your nerves. The unit was affordable, almost too affordable for the area, and the landlord, Mr. Carroll, seemed more interested in pocketing the rent in cash than asking questions. That should have been my first red flag.

My apartment was on the third floor. Above me was 4B, but Carroll assured me it was vacant—“long-term repairs,” he said. Still, almost every night, I heard footsteps.

Not casual creaks, mind you. Not the groan of aging wood. Actual, pacing footsteps. Sometimes fast, as if someone were jogging in place. Other times slow, dragging, like someone who couldn’t quite decide where to go. Always around 3:13 a.m.

I recorded the sounds on my phone. When I played them back the next day, nothing. Just silence or static. But I could swear I heard them—heavy thuds, soft scraping. And once, the unmistakable sound of humming. A child’s voice.

I reported it to Carroll.

“4B?” he said, scratching behind his ear. “No one’s in there. Never been rented since the fire.”

I blinked. “Fire?”

“Years ago. Didn’t damage much. Just spooked people. Insurance covered most of it.”

He said it like we were talking about bad plumbing, not potential arson. I asked for more details, but he waved me off. “Stay in your apartment at night. Don’t snoop. You’re safe if you keep to your own floor.”

That was when I started keeping notes. Not because I thought something supernatural was happening—I’m not that person. But because I felt like someone wanted me to be afraid.

One night, out of both defiance and fear, I knocked on the door of 4B. Nothing. The knob was cold. The air around it had that deep, musty chill of long-abandoned places. I leaned close, listening.

A breath. Not mine.

I stepped back fast, nearly tumbling down the stairs. That night, the noises were louder. Sharp bangs. A scraping that sounded like furniture dragging. And the humming again, now layered with what sounded like… whispering.

The next morning, I demanded to see inside 4B. Carroll refused. Told me I’d be evicted for trespassing if I tried.

So I did what any sane, anxious person would: I googled the address and added “death.”

It took time. Old forums, local newspaper archives, Reddit threads so deep I felt like I was reading someone’s digital journal. Then I found it—a case file summary posted in a crime enthusiast’s blog.

In 2012, a woman named Valerie Hennings and her son, Milo, were found dead in 4B. Murder-suicide. Valerie had been recently evicted, but somehow reentered the building, squatting in the apartment above mine. She never turned on utilities. The bodies were found two weeks later, discovered only after the tenant below complained about the smell.

The article said she’d written a note. One line stood out:

"I can’t sleep when he paces at night."

But there was no one else in the apartment. Just her and the boy.

I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t afford to. Not yet.

That night, I stayed up with a flashlight and my phone. At 3:13 a.m., I heard it. The footsteps. But they weren’t just above. They were... close.

Right above my hallway.

I aimed the flashlight at the ceiling. For a second, it was just plaster.

Then it bulged. Just slightly.

I screamed. Called 911.

By the time officers arrived, the noises had stopped. I tried to explain, but they looked at me the way people do when they’re already deciding not to believe you.

Still, one officer, a younger woman, took me seriously. She came back two days later with a building permit record.

“Your landlord,” she said, “never filed for fire damage repairs. But there is a sealed crawlspace between floors. Technically illegal. Might have been used for utilities years ago.”

I didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, I heard something fall in the hallway outside. When I opened the door, there was a piece of yellowed paper folded into quarters. No one was there.

It was a child’s drawing. Stick figures. One tall, one small. A red crayon had scratched big Xs through both.

Below it, scrawled in childish handwriting:

“Now it’s your turn to be quiet.”

I moved out that morning. Broke the lease. Left furniture behind. Never went back.

Three weeks later, someone posted on a true crime subreddit about hearing noises in a new apartment on 19th and Hoyt.

They lived in 3B.