The Man in the Apartment Above Me Was Never Alive

When I moved into my new apartment, I was just trying to escape the chaos of city life. The building was old, almost antique, with creaky wooden floors and faded wallpaper that smelled faintly of dust and history. It had charm. At least, that’s what I told myself.

My unit was on the second floor. Above me lived an old man named Mr. Elwin—or so the landlord said. He never came out, but I constantly heard him pacing at night. Slow, deliberate footsteps. Sometimes I’d hear furniture scrape, or the floor creak under weight. Normal stuff—at first.

But one night, I knocked on his door. I wanted to introduce myself, maybe offer a cup of coffee. No answer. Yet as I turned away, I heard footsteps inside. Not toward the door—but away. Like he was retreating deeper into the apartment.

I brushed it off.

Then came the dripping.

Every night at 3:12 a.m., a steady drip echoed from above. Like a leaky pipe or a faucet not turned all the way off. I reported it. The landlord checked. Came back pale and tight-lipped.

“There’s no leak,” he said. “Nothing at all. Don’t go up there again.”

I didn’t listen.

One night, I waited until 3:10 a.m. Then I crept up the stairs and pressed my ear to Mr. Elwin’s door.

Silence.

And then—tap… tap… drip.

It wasn’t water. It sounded thick. Slow. Like something… viscous.

I knocked. No answer.

So I did the unthinkable.

I tried the door.

It creaked open.

The apartment was dark. Not just dim—dark, like the light had been swallowed. The air smelled like mildew and rot. The living room was empty. No furniture. No signs of life.

Then I saw it: the footprints. Damp, brownish-red, leading from the front door to a hallway.

I followed.

That was my second mistake.

Down the hall was a bedroom. Inside, I saw a rocking chair. It moved back and forth gently. No one was in it.

Then… behind me… a whisper.

“Why are you in my home?”

I turned.

And saw him.

But it wasn’t a man. It was the shadow of one. Hollow eyes, skin like wax, lips sewn shut.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The figure pointed to the rocking chair.

A photo sat there.

It was old, yellowed.

A newspaper clipping beside it.

"Elderly Man Found Dead in Apartment Above – Three Years Undiscovered"

I ran.

Back to my room. Locked the door.

The footsteps above continued. Only now they stopped at the exact same place each night—right above my bed.

The dripping didn’t stop either.

It never did.

Last week, they found claw marks under my floorboards.

But the apartment upstairs?

Still empty.

Still rented.

Still… waiting.