The Stranger in Apartment 6B



The Stranger in Apartment 6B

Some knocks should never be answered.

It started with a knock at 2:17 a.m.

Mara didn’t move. Living alone in a creaky, aging apartment building in the city had taught her one thing: don’t open the door after midnight. Nothing good ever came of it.

But this knock wasn’t frantic or fearful. It was calm. Measured. Like whoever was on the other side knew she would open it.

She stood barefoot in the middle of her living room, her stomach knotting. The clock glowed red from her wall: 2:17 a.m.

Another knock.

Then silence.

Slowly, she crept toward the peephole. Her heartbeat thundered. Holding her breath, she looked—

No one.

The hallway was empty.

She let out a shaky sigh. Probably a prank. Maybe a drunk neighbor.

She turned back toward the bedroom.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three gentle knocks echoed from the fire escape window behind her.

She spun around.

No one was there either.

The knocks came every night. Always at 2:17 a.m. Always on the front door, followed by tapping from the fire escape.

The third night, she called the police. They searched, found no one, and left with hollow reassurances.

On the fourth night, she waited with her phone gripped tight and a baseball bat resting on her lap.

2:17 a.m.

A knock.

Then a low voice.

"Mara. Open the door."

Her blood turned to ice. Whoever it was had said her name.

"Who is it?" she called.

Silence.

She crept to the peephole again, slowly. This time, she saw him.

A man in a brown coat stood inches from her door, face hidden by the dim hallway light and a baseball cap pulled low.

Before she could move, he raised his hand and pointed—directly at the peephole.

"I see you," he whispered.

She stayed up till sunrise.

She fled to stay with her friend, Carla, across town.

That night, her phone rang.

2:17 a.m.

Unknown Number.

She answered, unsure why.

No one spoke.

The next night it rang again.

This time, a voice said softly, “Why’d you leave, Mara?”

Her chest tightened. She hadn’t told anyone she was staying with Carla.

On the seventh night, desperate for answers, she returned to her apartment.

But Apartment 6B, which had been empty for months, no longer was.

Boxes were stacked inside. Curtains drawn. Someone had moved in while she was gone.

Curious, she waited outside the door. Knocked. No answer.

Her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Hopkins, passed by. “He moved in last week,” she said, eyeing the door. “Quiet man. Keeps to himself. But odd. Gives me chills.”

Mara forced a smile. That night, she left her door unlocked.

Just in case.

**

2:17 a.m.

She heard slow footsteps stop outside her door.

The doorknob rattled quietly.

Then… nothing.

When she finally checked, there was no one there.

But sitting just inside her doorway was a black-and-white photograph.

It showed her standing in the hallway… with a man beside her in a brown coat, smiling.

Only, she had no memory of it ever being taken.

She hardly slept that week. Every night — the same time, the same knock.

Then, one night, she made the worst mistake: she forgot to lock her door.

She woke up suddenly, heart pounding hard.

2:17 a.m.

A shadow stood at the foot of her bed.

She gasped, fumbling for the bat — but it was gone.

The man in the brown coat stood perfectly still.

"You don’t remember, do you?" he whispered.

“Remember what?” she choked out.

"You opened the door,” he said.

“I didn’t—"

“Yes. Weeks ago. You thought no one came in. But I did.”

Panic surged in her chest.

He reached into his coat and dropped something onto her blanket.

Another photograph.

This one showed her face... asleep in bed.

And behind her, the man in the brown coat, staring at the camera.

When she looked up — he was gone.

She moved out the next day.

Changed her number. Left no forwarding address.

But weeks later, on a clear night in a quiet town, she jolts awake.

The digital clock beside her blinks:

2:17 a.m.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She doesn’t get up.

She doesn’t check the door.

Because she already knows who it is.

And this time, she won't answer.

At least… she hopes.