The Girl in the Third-Floor Window

I moved into the apartment complex in late October, just as the leaves turned brittle and the wind grew sharp. It was a three-story brick building on the edge of town, old but affordable—too affordable, if I’m being honest. I should’ve known something was off.

The leasing agent mentioned the top floor was “mostly unoccupied” and I’d have “peace and quiet.” That was perfect for me—just out of a breakup, starting a new job, and trying to clear my head. I took Apartment 203, directly below the only window that faced the street on the third floor.

The first time I saw her, it was just after midnight. I’d gone out for a smoke, standing in the biting cold, when I looked up and saw movement behind the window glass above me. A girl. Pale, maybe late teens, with long dark hair. She stood motionless, just staring out into the night.

I stared back. Something about her expression wasn’t right. Not frightened. Not sad. Just… blank.

I asked the maintenance guy the next morning, a gruff older man named Carl.

“No one's up there,” he said flatly. “Third floor’s been closed off since the fire.”

“Fire?”

He sighed, already annoyed. “Yeah. Years ago. Electrical fault. No one was hurt, but the place is sealed up. Can’t lease it—unsafe.”

But someone was up there. I saw her again the next night. And the next. Always at the same time, always the same spot. Never moving, just staring.

I started leaving my blinds closed.

Three nights later, I woke up at 3:13 a.m. The room was freezing. My heater was humming, but I could see my breath. As I pulled the covers tight, I heard something above me.

Thump. Drag. Thump.

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Directly overhead.

I called the building manager the next day. He confirmed what Carl had said. No power on the third floor. No access. Keys didn’t work anymore—it had been welded shut after squatters broke in last winter.

But that night, the footsteps came again. And this time… a knock on my door.

Three soft taps.

When I opened it, the hallway was empty. But down the corridor, the stairwell door creaked shut.

I barely slept. I kept trying to rationalize it—pipes, old wood, my imagination. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me.

The next day, I took my phone and went outside. I waited until midnight, camera ready. Right on schedule, the girl appeared in the third-floor window. I snapped the photo. Zoomed in.

And froze.

Her eyes weren’t blank. They were pleading. Her mouth was open mid-scream, her hands pressed against the glass.

I showed the photo to Carl. He went pale.

“That’s her,” he muttered. “God help me… that’s Lila.”

He told me the truth: Ten years ago, a girl named Lila lived in that very unit with her mother. The mother was unstable—schizophrenia, untreated. She locked Lila in the apartment, convinced the world was trying to steal her child.

One night, a fire started. The mother escaped. Lila didn’t.

Firefighters found scratch marks on the inside of the window.

They said she died instantly from smoke inhalation. But Carl always had doubts. Said he heard tapping on the walls after the unit was sealed. Thought it was grief messing with his head.

I moved out the next morning. Left the deposit, left my furniture—everything.

But sometimes, when I look at that photo…

I think she wasn’t asking for help.

She was warning me.

Because something else was in that room with her. And it’s still there.