The Quiet Apartment

It was ideal for someone starting from scratch. She told herself the creaks were normal, the dim hallway lights just old wiring. However, what gnawed at her was the silence. She had no idea who her neighbors were. Through the thin walls, there are no muffled voices or footsteps above. Not even a dog barking or a door slamming. Just… silence.

The whispers didn't start until the third night. Emily initially believed she was dreaming. They came soft and rhythmic, like breathing turned into words. Too low to understand but just loud enough to keep her awake. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear to the wall that separated her apartment from 6A. Nothing.

When she pulled away, the whispering started again — this time, directly behind her.

She twisted around. No one there.

She laughed nervously, blaming it on stress. A new job, new city, new apartment. It made sense. That night, she barely slept, and the next morning, she was convinced it was the wind. Or maybe the pipes. That was the effect of older structures. But it wasn’t the building.

She began to notice additional things by the seventh night. Her keys moved. Just slightly. Always a few centimeters away from where she left them. Once, she found them on the windowsill — a place she never put them. Another time, she woke up to find her bedroom door wide open when she always closed it tight.

More than once, she swore she’d turned off the kitchen light, only to find it glowing faintly under the door crack at 2 a.m.

And always… the whispers. Faint, unintelligible, always behind her.

She tried recording them once — left her phone on the kitchen counter overnight with the recorder on. The file was gone the following morning. Not corrupted — erased. Every file on her phone intact… except that one.

Emily grew pale and restless. She became distracted at work. Her coworkers noticed the dark circles forming under her eyes, the way she flinched at sudden sounds. She kept quiet. What could she say?

"I think something is watching me in my apartment," She began researching the building, desperate for answers. But the internet had little to say. No reviews. No background. The building didn’t even appear on Google Street View — a blank smear where it should have been.

So she went to the landlord.

Mr. With a comb-over and an expression that never quite reached his eyes, Keller was a short, bird-like man. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Emily said, nervously twisting her fingers, “but do you know anything about the last tenant in 6B?”

Mr. After giving her a long look, Keller gave her a thin smile. "You are the first tenant in 6B in quite some time." Emily looked up. “But… the place was furnished.”

He nodded. “We keep it that way.”

She tried once more. “But someone lived there before. Right? Specifically, I can feel it. He shrugged. “If there was someone, they left no record.”

No record No pictures. No trace. Nothing.

That night, Emily didn’t sleep.

The whispers grew louder.

Now they had shape. They began to sound like her name. Not quite, but close enough to twist her stomach into knots.

“Ehhh…mmmmm…leee…”

She sat in the living room with all the lights on, clutching a kitchen knife. Every shadow looked deeper. Each silence is longer. She finally fell asleep on the couch sometime near dawn.

She heard breathing when she awoke at 3:13 in the morning. Not her own.

Slow. Wet. Gurgling.

It came from the corridor. She didn’t move. She struggled to breathe. A single floorboard creaked.

Next, another. The breathing became more direct. She couldn’t see anyone, but the air grew cold. Her breath was cloudy. She was unable to move and wanted to run and scream. Then there was silence. The next morning, she found something carved into the wall behind her couch.

“Welcome back.”

She stared at the words, heart thudding. They had not been there the previous night. She was certain. And the gouges were deep. Like claw marks.

That day, she packed her belongings. But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze.

The corridor was gone. In its place was a long, narrow corridor — stretching far beyond the size of the building. The interior was darker. There was a faint buzzing sound as the overhead light flickered. She circled back. Her apartment door was gone.

The wall behind her was solid brick.

There was no service on her phone. No signal. Just a single notification.

"You never left."

Her knees buckled. She screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the corridor.

She ran — toward the distant end, feet pounding the endless floor, shadows racing beside her. The rooms she passed by she didn't look into. She didn't want to look inside of them. Eventually, breathless and shaking, she stopped.

A door stood in front of her. Unmarked.

She opened it.

It led back into her apartment.

However, it was unique. Everything was covered in dust. Boards held the windows shut. The couch was moth-eaten, the kitchen moldy. The entire area appeared to have been neglected for a number of years. A mirror hung crooked on the wall. She stepped toward it — slowly, dreading what she might see.

Her reflection looked happy. She did not.

She stepped back. Her reflection stayed, grinning with teeth that were just slightly too long.

Then it moved.

She ran.

Back through the apartment, out into the hallway, through the impossible corridor. However, each door brought her back to the same location. The decaying version of her home. With that mirror. That reflection.

And always… the whispers.

________________________________________

It's now been two weeks. If you pass by the building on Mercer Street, you’ll see Apartment 6B’s window. You can occasionally, just occasionally, see her if you look very closely. A pale woman, face pressed to the glass, eyes wide and pleading.

But no one ever answers when she knocks.

After all — Apartment 6B has been vacant for over forty years.