The Last Letter in Room 6B

When Claire rented the tiny apartment in the old brick building on Oak Street, she wasn’t looking for charm—just cheap rent and a place close to work. The peeling wallpaper, creaky floors, and drafty windows didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was hers.

The landlord, a gray-haired man named Mr. Keller, handed her the keys with a strange warning.
“Room 6B’s been empty for a long time. If you find anything… odd, just let me know.”

Claire laughed it off. Every old building had its quirks.

The Envelope

On her first night, she noticed a small gap in the baseboard near the closet. When she knelt down for a closer look, her fingers brushed against something—an envelope, yellowed with age.

Her name wasn’t on it. Instead, in neat handwriting, it read:
To whoever lives here next

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

I’m sorry for what you’ll hear at night. It’s not the pipes. Don’t open the closet after midnight.

Claire frowned. Old tenants playing pranks? Probably. Still, she shoved the note back into the envelope and slid it into the kitchen drawer.

The First Night

Around 1:00 a.m., a faint tapping sound woke her. It came from the closet.
Tap… tap… pause. Tap-tap.

She pulled the covers over her head and told herself it was just the building settling. But when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of someone standing at the foot of her bed, holding another envelope.

Curiosity

By the third night, the tapping had become rhythmic, almost impatient. Claire’s curiosity gnawed at her. She switched on the bedside lamp, grabbed her phone flashlight, and approached the closet.

The door handle was cold—unnaturally cold. She almost turned away, but the tapping stopped the moment her fingers touched the knob.

She turned it.

The Closet

It wasn’t a normal closet anymore.
The space beyond stretched farther than it should, dimly lit by a pale, flickering light. The air smelled of damp paper and something metallic. On the floor, a single envelope rested, identical to the first.

She picked it up.
If you’re reading this, it means the door has opened again. Leave now. Don’t take anything with you. Don’t answer if it calls your name.

A deep, wet sound came from the darkness—like breathing. Then, faintly, she heard it:
“Claire…”

She slammed the door and locked it.

The Neighbor

The next morning, Claire knocked on the door of 6A, the apartment next to hers. A young man answered, bleary-eyed.

“Did you ever hear… noises from the closet?” she asked hesitantly.

He froze. “You got 6B? Yeah… the last tenant left in the middle of the night. Said the closet talked to her.”

Claire forced a laugh, pretending it didn’t bother her. But inside, her stomach tightened.

The Last Warning

That night, she pushed a chair in front of the closet door. The tapping didn’t start until midnight, and this time it was louder, like something knocking to be let out.

Then came the whisper:
“Claire… I have something for you.”

The voice was almost kind. Almost.

Against her better judgment, she called back, “What do you want?”

The tapping stopped. Silence. Then—slip, slip, slip—something slid under the door.

An envelope.

Her hands shook as she opened it.

If you let me out, I can give you anything you want.

Temptation

Claire didn’t sleep. She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope. She thought of her overdue bills, the promotion she’d been passed over for, the boyfriend who’d left her. Anything she wanted.

By dawn, she had convinced herself it was just some weird building mystery, maybe a hidden crawl space with another tenant playing tricks.

She decided she’d open it. Just for a second.

The Bargain

That night, she moved the chair away and sat cross-legged in front of the closet door. The voice came again, soft and patient.

“Claire… just open it.”

She turned the knob. The pale light spilled into her room again, and the air felt heavy, pressing against her skin.

From the darkness, a shape emerged—a tall figure, its face hidden by shadows. It held out an envelope.

She reached for it.

The Final Letter

Morning came, and Mr. Keller knocked on 6B’s door, holding a maintenance form. There was no answer.

Inside, the apartment was empty. The bed was made, dishes were washed, and the rent envelope sat on the counter.

On the floor near the closet, a single yellowed envelope waited. In neat handwriting, it read:
To whoever lives here next