The Man in Apartment 3B

The first time I noticed the man in Apartment 3B, it was because of the humming.

It was soft at first—just a low, tuneless vibration that drifted into the hallway as I passed by with a bag of groceries. I paused for a moment, tilted my head, then kept walking. New tenants weren’t unusual. The building was old, rent-controlled, and weird enough that only a certain type of person stuck around.

I was one of them.

But there was something about 3B.

No one remembered anyone moving in. There hadn’t been a U-Haul. No awkward introductions. No boxes cluttering the hallway. Just one morning, the door that had been sealed with a maintenance sticker for years had a new nameplate.

“J. Bellamy.”

I asked my neighbor Mrs. Ramos about it while we checked our mail.

“You heard the humming?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “You’re the third person this week.”

She didn’t elaborate. Just mumbled something about bad insulation and left.

That night, I listened.

My apartment, 3A, shares a wall with 3B. Usually, it’s dead quiet, except for the occasional plumbing groan or the creak of ancient pipes. But at 2:13 a.m., I woke up.

Humming.

Low. Incessant. Almost hypnotic.

I pressed my ear to the wall. It stopped.

And then something else: a shuffle, like feet dragging across the floor. Followed by the distinct click of a light switch.

The next morning, I knocked on his door.

No answer.

I tried again the next day. And the day after that.

No one ever came or went. The hallway camera—our building’s only upgrade from the last decade—confirmed it. I asked the super, Joe, if he knew anything.

He just scratched his beard and said, “Some people don’t want to be known.”

That week, the hallway lights started flickering every night around the same time. Always near 3B. Always when the humming started.

I couldn’t sleep.

I started documenting it. I wrote down the times, the sounds, the patterns. The humming never had a melody, but it shifted—like it was mimicking something it had heard before. Once, it almost sounded like the ice cream truck tune from my childhood, slowed down and warped.

Then came the smell.

Faint. Metallic. Like rust and something sour. It came through the vents.

I stopped using the bathroom fan.

One night, desperate for sleep, I stood outside his door with a cup of tea. I wasn’t going to knock. Just… observe. Prove to myself there was a person behind the door.

At 2:13 a.m., the humming started.

And then, slowly, the doorknob turned.

I held my breath.

It opened just an inch. Just enough to see… darkness. Not dim light. Not shadows.

Complete blackness. Like the door opened into nothing.

The humming grew louder. My skin prickled. The hallway grew cold.

I backed away. The door clicked shut.

The next morning, the nameplate was gone.

Just an empty rectangle of adhesive residue.

I knocked again. Hard.

No answer.

Joe came up that afternoon. I asked him to open the unit.

“I don’t have a key,” he said. “That place’s been empty for years.”

“But—”

“Look.” He pushed the door open with a little effort. The hinges groaned.

Inside: Dust. Cobwebs. A mattress with a torn cover. No furniture. No signs of life.

Or recent tenancy.

I moved out two days later.

I still hear the humming sometimes.

Not in my new place. Not through walls.

But when it’s really late, and I’ve been awake too long… I hear it behind me.

Soft. Familiar.

Like it followed me.

Author’s Note:

Not every locked door stays that way. Not every sound is meant to be understood. And some neighbors… you’re better off never meeting.