The Girl in Apartment 9: Arrival

The key turned with a rusty click. Eliza pushed open the heavy door to Apartment 9, its hinges moaning as if in protest. A gust of stale air brushed her face — cool, dust-scented, and faintly metallic, like the inside of a long-forgotten locker.

The apartment was modest. A narrow hallway led to a small living room with an old radiator groaning in the corner. The wallpaper, pale blue and peeling, curled at the edges like the pages of an ancient book. A single window overlooked the alley behind the building, where shadows hung long and deep.

She dropped her suitcase with a thud and stretched her arms. After two months of couch-surfing and another three weeks in a grimy motel, this was her fresh start.

“Home,” she whispered to herself, though the word felt strangely hollow in the silence.

Eliza had found the apartment through a last-minute listing online. It seemed too good to be true: low rent, central location, utilities included. The landlord, Mr. Blackwell, was curt and reluctant, as though he didn’t care whether she moved in or not. That should’ve been her first red flag.

But Eliza wasn’t in a position to be picky. After losing her job and splitting with her fiancé all in the same week, she’d packed what she could and headed for the city. Her dreams of becoming an illustrator felt dim and distant now, but she was determined to rebuild.

On the second day, she bought groceries and unpacked. She hung a few of her charcoal sketches on the walls, lit a candle, and tried to ignore the gnawing sense of stillness in the apartment. There were no creaks from neighbors, no distant music, no footsteps. Just her, the hum of the fridge, and the occasional groan of the radiator.

It wasn’t until the third day that the oddities began.

She awoke in the middle of the night, her mouth dry, heart pounding. A sound had stirred her. Faint but deliberate — a knock.

Not at the door. No. It came from the wall behind her bed. Three knocks. Soft. Rhythmic. She sat up, her ears straining.

Silence.

Probably the pipes, she told herself. Or an old building settling.

But the next morning, when she opened her door to leave for a coffee run, she found something lying on the doormat.

A photograph.

It was old — sepia-toned and fraying at the edges. In it, a young woman stood in front of the very same door Eliza now occupied, smiling nervously, her eyes not quite meeting the camera. Scrawled on the back in red ink were five words:

“Don’t stay here too long.”

She brought the photo inside and laid it on the counter. Was it a joke? Leftover from a previous tenant?

Curiosity led her to knock on her neighbor’s door, Apartment 10. After a few minutes, a man opened it. He was in his sixties, hunched, with eyes that looked like they hadn’t closed in years.

“Yes?”

“I live next door. Just moved in,” she said with a forced smile. “Do you… know who lived here before me?”

He looked over her shoulder, at the doorway of Apartment 9, then at the floor.

“No one stays long.”

“What do you mean?”

But he simply shook his head and closed the door without another word.

That night, Eliza couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the floor made her tense. Around 2:17 a.m., the knocking returned. This time, on the front door.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.

She froze in bed, heart galloping. No footsteps, no voices. Just those three knocks.

She crept to the door and peered through the peephole.

Nothing.

No one in the hallway. No retreating footsteps. No prankster hiding behind a wall.

Just the hallway light flickering, buzzing like a trapped fly.

She locked the door, wedged a chair under the handle, and spent the rest of the night awake, clutching her blanket and staring at the ceiling.

On day five, she visited Mr. Blackwell at the management office. His assistant tried to turn her away, but Eliza pushed past.

“I need to speak to him now.”

Mr. Blackwell looked up from his desk, startled, then annoyed.

“Eliza. You’ve been there… what? A week?”

“Five days.”

“So?”

“So I’m being harassed.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “By who?”

“I don’t know. Someone knocks at night. Someone left a picture outside my door. You didn’t tell me the place was…” She paused. Haunted? Cursed? She felt stupid just saying it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should just leave.”

Eliza blinked. “What?”

“You won’t be charged for the lease. Just leave. Consider it… advice.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not even going to pretend this is normal?”

“There’s nothing normal about Apartment 9,” he said, voice low. “I don’t ask questions anymore. Most tenants don’t stay past a week. The last one left in the middle of the night. One before that — never even moved her stuff out.”

Eliza stared at him. “Then why rent it at all?”

Mr. Blackwell gave her a tired, bitter smile. “Because people like you keep showing up. Broke. Desperate. And because that apartment… always finds someone.”

A chill raced up her arms. “What happened to them?”

He said nothing. Just looked at her like he was already mourning.

Eliza returned to Apartment 9 just after dusk. The hallway felt colder than before, the air thick and damp. When she reached her door, she froze.

Another photo.

This time, it was her.

Standing inside the apartment, near the kitchen window. She didn’t remember it being taken. The image was slightly blurred, but it was unmistakably her — hair up, coffee mug in hand, head turned as though listening to something behind her.

She flipped it over.

“It’s watching.”

Her stomach dropped. She ran inside, locking the door behind her. Every shadow in the room felt deeper now, every creak more sinister.

She searched every inch of the apartment: under the bed, inside the closets, behind the shower curtain. Nothing. No hidden cameras. No windows left open.

Yet the silence was different now. Alert. Anticipating.

She tried to sleep with the lights on that night. Sometime after midnight, she must have drifted off, because when she woke again, the lights were off.

The room was pitch black.

Then, she heard it.

Breathing.

Not hers. Slow. Wet. Close.

She sat up, heart thudding in her chest, and reached for her phone — but it was gone. So was the lamp on the bedside table.

Then she saw it.

In the corner of the room. A tall figure, just out of reach of the dim hallway light bleeding under the door. Its shape shimmered, like heat above asphalt. No features. No face. Just eyes. Pale, reflective. Watching.

She screamed.

The lights snapped on.

And it was gone.

Morning came. Eliza packed.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. She crammed her belongings into her suitcase and stormed out of the building, refusing to look at the door to Apartment 9.

She moved in with a friend across the city that afternoon.

Later, as she unpacked, she opened her bag and found something wedged between her sketchbooks.

Another photograph.

She stared at it for a long time.

It showed the front door of Apartment 9 — closed, silent, waiting.

In the window behind it, her reflection stood.

Smiling.