My Airbnb Host Wasn’t Human—But I Still Stayed the Night

I wasn’t looking for anything special—just a cheap one-bedroom in the city.

Nothing fancy. Nothing haunted. Just four walls, a ceiling, and Wi-Fi.

The apartment listing looked normal. The photos were grainy but showed a compact space with decent light and old-school charm. Rent was unusually low for that neighborhood, but I chalked it up to luck. Maybe someone had died here. Maybe they just wanted it off their hands fast.

Either way, I signed the lease.

That was my first mistake.

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Day One: What the Floor Plan Forgot

Moving in wasn’t hard. I didn’t own much—just a couple suitcases, a bookshelf, my writing gear, and a healthy dose of exhaustion. While stacking books, I compared the floor plan again to the actual space.

It didn’t add up.

The blueprint showed a second closet on the living room wall. But there was only solid wallpaper and drywall. No knobs. No outline. Nothing.

Until I noticed the bookshelf leaned ever so slightly forward—like the floor was uneven. I moved it aside and tapped the wall.

Hollow.

My heart thudded.

The wallpaper was ancient, patterned with faded roses. I peeled a corner. The paper came off in large strips, revealing an old, warped wooden door.

It had no handle.

Just a smooth black metal knob in the center.

Not creepy at all.

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Day Two: The Scratching Begins

I didn’t touch it again that night.

At 2:30 a.m., I woke to a scratching sound.

Soft, slow, deliberate.

It came from the wall—the door.

I sat up in bed, holding my breath.

Scritch... scritch... tap.

Like nails or claws gently tracing the wood. I got up, broom in hand, and knocked once on the door.

Silence.

Then... knock. Knock. Knock.

Three taps, perfectly spaced, like a reply.

I stumbled back, heart in my throat. I slept on the couch that night—with the lights on.

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Day Three: The Door Opens

I called the landlord the next morning.

“There's a door behind the wallpaper,” I said.

He went quiet. “There’s no door there,” he said flatly. “That wall’s solid.”

I sent him a photo.

No reply.

That evening, after work, I walked into the apartment and froze.

The door was open.

Just a crack. Enough to see pitch-black space inside.

No light. No sound. No explanation.

The air smelled wrong—like wet dirt, metal, and something sweet and rotten.

I shut it.

Or tried to.

It wouldn’t budge.

Something resisted me.

Like it wanted to stay open.

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Day Four: Lost Signal, Lost Mind

By morning, I was ready to leave. But the front door wouldn’t open. The knob turned but the deadbolt jammed, as if welded shut. My phone had no signal. No Wi-Fi. No power.

That evening, I sat in front of the hidden door again, watching it.

It opened wider—on its own.

Inside was a staircase. Stone steps leading down into darkness. The air changed. Thick. Heavy. Cold.

Something whispered.

It sounded like my voice.

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Descent into Nowhere

I don’t know why I stepped inside.

Curiosity? Madness? Something pulled at my spine like a magnet.

The door creaked behind me and shut.

I walked downward. One step. Another. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

There was no end. No walls. Just black stone and the soft echo of my breathing.

At the bottom was a room.

Round. Stone-carved. Covered in symbols I didn’t recognize. Like something pulled from ancient nightmares.

In the center sat a chair.

And someone in it.

They were hunched forward, their back to me, shaking.

I moved closer.

They turned.

It was me.

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The Switch

My double looked starved. Lips cracked. Eyes hollow. Like they'd been screaming for years.

They didn’t speak. They only smiled—slow and broken—then reached out and touched my chest.

Everything flipped.

I was in the chair.

Chained. Mouth open in a silent scream.

He—me—walked away.

Up the stairs.

Into my life.

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Day ???: The Wrong Reflection

I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

Time doesn’t exist in this place. Only the echo of footsteps above. My footsteps. His.

Sometimes, I feel him living my life.

Posting on my social media.

Smiling in my photos.

Going to my job. Flirting with girls I liked. Writing in my notebooks.

But he's not me.

He’s something else.

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If You’re Reading This…

I don’t know how this message will reach you. I scrawled it into the walls of this stone prison. Maybe the walls listen.

Check your apartment. Tap every wall.

If you find a door that isn’t on the floor plan—

Don’t open it.

Because if you do, something might climb out.

And take your place.

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