The Apartment No One Rents

The Apartment No One Rents

There’s a building in the center of the city where life moves like clockwork. Families come and go, new tenants replace the old, and lights flicker warmly behind every window—except one.

Apartment 4B has remained dark for as long as anyone can remember. The landlord never advertises it. The neighbors don’t talk about it. And yet, everyone knows: 4B is the apartment no one rents.

I first heard about it when I moved into the building two years ago. My neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, was the kind of woman who always had gossip ready before you could even put your grocery bags down.

“You don’t ever go near 4B,” she warned me, leaning on her cane. “Doesn’t matter if you hear noises. Doesn’t matter if you see the light on. Just don’t.”

At first, I laughed it off. An empty apartment in a busy city? Probably a storage space or under renovation. Still, something about the way she stared at me, her eyes cloudy with both age and fear, made me uneasy.

Three months later, I had my first real encounter. It was past midnight when I returned from a late shift at work. The hallway was silent, except for the faint sound of… humming. A low, eerie tune that came from behind the door of 4B.

I froze. The apartment was supposed to be empty. I bent down slightly, peeking at the crack under the door. A thin sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

Suddenly, the humming stopped.

My heart thundered. Then, a shadow moved across the strip of light—slow, deliberate, like someone was standing just inches from the door.

I ran to my own apartment and locked the door behind me. I didn’t sleep that night.

Curiosity has a way of eating at you. Over the next few weeks, I found myself slowing down whenever I passed 4B. Sometimes the door looked completely normal, just another faded brown wood panel in a tired old building. Other times, I could swear the knob rattled, or the faintest whisper slipped through the cracks.

One afternoon, when the building was nearly empty, I decided I couldn’t resist anymore. I pressed my ear to the door. Silence. Then—three sharp knocks from the other side.

I stumbled backward so fast I nearly tripped.

I tried asking the landlord, Mr. Donnelly, about it. His face went pale the moment I mentioned 4B.

“Not your concern,” he snapped. “Stay out of there. For your own good.” He wouldn’t say another word.

That night, I dreamt of a girl with hollow eyes sitting cross-legged on the floor of 4B. She was humming the same tune I’d heard weeks earlier. When she turned to me, her mouth stretched unnaturally wide.

I woke up drenched in sweat, the sound of humming still echoing faintly in my ears.

The final straw came when I returned home one evening and found my own apartment door wide open. Panic surged through me. I knew I’d locked it.

I searched every corner—kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Empty. But on my coffee table sat something I had never owned: a brass key, old and rusted, with a faded tag that read 4B.

I dropped it instantly, but when it hit the floor, the sound wasn’t a normal clink of metal. It was a shrill, piercing note, like a scream.

I moved out the very next day.

Months later, I drove by the building out of morbid curiosity. Every window glowed with life, laughter spilling from balconies—except one. Apartment 4B remained dark, its curtains drawn.

I swear, though, as I passed, I caught a glimpse of a figure standing at the window. Pale face. Hollow eyes.

And when I rolled the window of my car down, I heard it again. That low, dreadful humming, following me long after the building disappeared from sight.

© 2025 by [Talha Maroof]