The Room That Shouldn’t Exist

It started on a quiet evening in late October.

Adil had just moved into his new apartment on the edge of the city. The building was old, its walls yellowed with time, its elevators always groaning as though carrying more than just people. But the rent was cheap, and Adil had convinced himself that a little discomfort was worth the savings.

His apartment was on the sixth floor. Small, square, and dimly lit. On his first night, as he unpacked, he noticed something strange: the hallway outside his door had seven doors on one side—but the blueprint he had seen online clearly showed only six apartments on that floor.

He counted again. One, two, three, four, five, six… and a seventh. The seventh door stood at the farthest corner, painted black, with no number plate. It looked older than the rest, its wood cracked like dried skin.

Adil felt a chill creep down his spine. Maybe it’s a storage room, he thought. But something about the door gnawed at him.

That night, while lying in bed, Adil kept hearing faint noises. A dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. Then—three slow knocks. Not on his door, but from the hallway. He froze, holding his breath, staring at his own door until dawn.

The next morning, he asked the building’s caretaker about the seventh door. The old man stiffened, his face turning pale.

“There is no seventh apartment,” the caretaker whispered. “Don’t go near that door. Don’t knock. Don’t open.”

Before Adil could ask more, the man walked away, muttering prayers under his breath.

That warning should have been enough. But curiosity is a dangerous seed.

Two nights later, the noises returned—scraping, dragging, whispers that slipped through the walls. At exactly 3:07 a.m., Adil heard the black door creak open. He didn’t see it, but he knew. The hallway filled with a smell of rot, and his lights flickered violently.

Unable to resist, Adil stepped out of his apartment. The hallway was empty. But the black door now stood slightly ajar, darkness bleeding out of it like smoke.

“Hello?” His voice trembled. No answer.

He pushed the door open.

Inside was a room far larger than the building should allow. The walls were damp stone, not plaster. Candles burned in the corners, their flames unnaturally still. In the center of the room sat a wooden chair, and tied to it—was himself.

Adil’s heart almost stopped. It was his own face, his own body, bound and gagged, eyes wide with terror. The other Adil thrashed against the ropes, muffling desperate cries.

The air grew colder. A whisper crawled through the room: One of you must stay.

Before he could run, the door slammed shut behind him.

Hours blurred. Adil tried to free the bound version of himself, but every time he touched the ropes, pain shot through his skull. The whispers grew louder, echoing endlessly: One of you must stay… one of you must stay…

Then the bound Adil looked straight into his eyes. And smiled.

Adil stumbled back, horror tightening around his chest. The bound one was no longer afraid—he was grinning, teeth sharp, eyes black. The ropes turned into long, writhing shadows that began to untie themselves.

The thing stood up, stretching, skin cracking as though shedding. It was him—but darker, hungrier, wrong.

“You opened the door,” it said in his voice. “Now you stay. I’ll live your life.”

It lunged forward.

Adil ran to the door, clawing at it, but it wouldn’t budge. Behind him, footsteps closed in. Fingers, cold and sharp, gripped his shoulder—

And then everything went dark.

The next morning, neighbors saw Adil in the hallway. He smiled, greeted them politely, and went about his day as if nothing had happened. Only his eyes betrayed him—black, empty, watching for the next door to open.

Somewhere, in a room that shouldn’t exist, the real Adil still screams. But no one can hear her him