Whispers from Apartment 6B

Whispers from Apartment 6B

When I moved into apartment 6A, the landlord said the unit next to mine — 6B — had been empty for years.

“Don’t worry about noise,” he chuckled. “No one's lived there since 2012.”

But he was wrong.

The first whisper came on my fourth night.

I was half asleep when I heard it — soft, low, right through the wall.

> "Daniel..."

I froze.

The voice was raspy, but close. Too close. Like someone was pressing their mouth to the wall. I waited, holding my breath.

Nothing.

The next morning, I asked the landlord again: “You’re sure no one lives in 6B?”

He looked annoyed.

“Vacant. Completely sealed. No one has keys but me.”

I let it go. Maybe it was a dream.

But the next night, the voice came again.

> "Daniel... Can you hear me?"

Clearer this time. Deliberate.

I jumped out of bed, pressed my ear against the wall. My heart thundered in my chest.

Silence.

Until—

> "I miss having someone to talk to."

I stumbled back. There was no way this was a dream.

I knocked on the wall. “Who’s there?”

No reply.

I called the landlord. Told him someone was inside 6B. He sighed and came over. Together we opened the apartment.

It was empty.

No furniture. No power. Dust thick enough to choke.

“See?” he said. “Nothing here.”

He left, muttering something about “paranoid tenants.” But I stayed. I walked through every inch of 6B. It smelled like old paper and metal. The walls were yellowed with age.

But as I passed the bedroom… I felt it.

A coldness. Not from the air. From something deeper.

Like the room didn’t want me there.

---

Back in my apartment, the whispers started again.

But now, they weren’t just calling my name.

> "Don’t trust the landlord."

"He knew what happened here."

"He left me behind."

I stopped sleeping. I set up my phone to record overnight. The next morning, I played back the audio.

And I heard it — clearly:

> "Daniel, open the wall."

---

I tried to ignore it.

I wore earplugs. Played music. Slept on the couch.

But the voice moved with me. Always from the wall closest to where I lay.

It wasn’t content anymore just to whisper.

It cried.

Deep, aching sobs that sounded not quite human.

One night, I snapped.

I grabbed a hammer and went to 6B. I walked to the bedroom. That cold place. I started tearing into the wall.

The plaster cracked. Dust filled my lungs.

And then — the hammer struck something hollow.

A space.

I pried it open.

Inside was a small, windowless cavity.

And in it — a chair.

Straps on the arms. Dried red stains on the floor. A tape recorder, half buried in dust. And a small notebook.

I turned the recorder on. Static. Then — a voice.

Not a whisper. A man’s voice.

> “Test subject 6B, Day 82. Still responding to auditory isolation. Subject repeats name ‘Daniel’ even when alone. Beginning to believe external voices are real.”

It was my name. But this was years ago.

The notebook was full of notes. Diagrams. Torture experiments.

The last entry?

> “Subject removed. Unit sealed. Daniel was never real.”

---

I ran.

Back to my apartment. But something had changed.

All the walls were whispering now.

> "Daniel."

"You’re real to us."

"We remember you."

"Come back inside."

I left that night.

I never went back.

But wherever I go… the voices follow.

Hotels. Buses. Airplanes.

Always whispering. Always from the nearest wall.

They don’t need the apartment anymore.

They need me.

And every night, they ask me one thing:

> "Are you ready to come home, Daniel?"