The Silent Apartment

When I moved into apartment 405, the leasing agent assured me the unit next door—406—was vacant.

“It’s been empty for months,” she said. “No one’s even applied to rent it.”

Good. I wanted peace. I had just started a remote editing job and was dealing with the fallout of a rough breakup. Silence was my friend.

For the first few days, everything was quiet.

Until the third night.

I was lying in bed around 2:00 a.m., scrolling through messages when I heard it.

A faint tapping on the wall behind my headboard.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I sat up, confused. Maybe pipes? An animal?

Then came the whisper.

“Daniel…”

My name.

Soft. Clear. Right behind my wall.

I froze.

I turned off my lamp and pressed my ear to the drywall. Nothing. Silence. Just the faint hum of my ceiling fan.

The next day, I asked the building manager again.

“Hey… you said 406 is empty, right?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Still is. Locked. Why?”

“Just thought I heard something last night. No big deal.”

She smiled politely, but I saw it—the hesitation.

That night, the tapping came again. Louder. Faster.

Tap tap tap tap.

And then the whisper, clearer this time.

“Daniel… I’m still here.”

I jumped out of bed and went straight to the hallway. 406’s door was shut, the peephole covered with tape.

I knocked.

Nothing.

Then I noticed something strange.

The doorknob was warm.

The next day, I checked the mailboxes in the lobby. 406’s box was labeled “No Mail,” but there were fresh envelopes inside.

No name on them. Just a symbol drawn in red ink: a small spiral.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

At 2:13 a.m., I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I peeked through my peephole.

A woman stood in front of 406. She had long black hair, wore a faded blue dress, and was barefoot.

She wasn’t knocking.

She was just facing the door.

Still. Like a statue.

Then she turned her head—slowly—and looked directly at me.

I stepped back.

When I looked again, she was gone.

I finally told my coworker, Sarah, about it.

She laughed at first—until I played her the recording.

I had left my phone on the headboard the night before, recording audio while I slept.

The file was full of static.

Then… a voice.

“He doesn’t remember what he did.”

“But I do.”

It wasn’t my voice.

It wasn’t a voice I recognized.

But it was in my bedroom.

I decided to investigate 406 myself.

The next morning, while the hallway was quiet, I picked the lock. I had learned some lockpicking back in college. I know how that sounds.

To my surprise, the door clicked open in seconds.

The apartment was… untouched. Dusty, but not abandoned.

There were pictures on the wall. A couch. A coffee mug still sitting on the counter, like someone had just stepped out.

But the strange part?

The photos.

Every single picture was of me.

At the grocery store. Walking into my building. On my balcony.

One was from just three days ago.

I backed out of the apartment and locked the door behind me.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might tear through my chest.

Who lived there?

How did they know me?

That night, I packed a bag and stayed at a hotel.

But at 2:13 a.m., my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

A voicemail.

I played it.

“Running won’t help, Daniel.”

“You left me here. You forgot me.”

“Come home.”

Then a pause.

And then, softly:

“406.”

I’ve moved out now. I never went back to get the rest of my things.

The leasing agent called once.

She said 406 was being listed again. Finally ready for new tenants.

But she also said something that made my blood run cold:

“We cleared it out last week. But when we walked in… there was a photo on the counter.”

“It was of you.”

“And… it was dated tomorrow.”