The Room That Watches

The Room That Watches

Arman moved into the apartment because it was cheap — suspiciously cheap.

The landlord barely spoke, only handed him the keys and muttered:

“Don’t stay after midnight.”

Arman laughed it off.

Old building, old superstitions.

He needed a place, and this one fit his budget.

But from the first night, he knew something was wrong.

The apartment was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet — watching quiet.

Like the silence that hangs before someone answers a question.

The walls felt… aware.

When he walked down the hallway, he sensed something trailing behind him, almost matching his footsteps a half-second late. The air felt heavier near the far corner of the living room — the one spot that remained slightly darker no matter how bright the lamp was.

Still, he ignored it.

People hallucinate when stressed, he reminded himself.

New job, new city.

He told himself it was just nerves.

Until the second night.

He woke at 2:11 AM — the exact same time as the night before.

The room felt freezing, colder than it had any right to be. His breath puffed in the air like smoke.

But something else was wrong.

The layout of the room had changed.

The wooden chair he placed by the desk was now turned to face his bed.

Directly.

Perfectly aligned.

As if someone sat there watching him sleep.

He stared at it for a long time.

Told himself he must have moved it and forgotten.

But deep down, he knew he hadn’t.

The next morning, he pushed the chair into the closet and locked the closet door.

That night, he woke at exactly 2:11 AM again.

And the closet door was open.

Worse — the chair was back beside the bed, facing him.

He began keeping the lights on.

All of them.

Yet even under bright bulbs, the same corner of the living room stayed dim, as if the light refused to enter it.

“Stop imagining things,” he whispered to himself.

But the room heard him.

And it didn’t like being denied.

On the fourth night, he heard whispering.

Not words — just a low humming sound that rose and fell like breathing.

Behind the walls.

He pressed his ear to the plaster.

Cold.

Too cold.

The hum grew louder.

And beneath it… a faint tapping.

Slow. Steady. Patient.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

It was coming from behind the dark corner.

Arman grabbed his jacket and fled the apartment, spending the night in a 24-hour café. The fluorescent lights and noisy customers felt like heaven compared to his silent, watching room.

But he couldn’t afford a hotel, so he returned the next morning.

The front door was unlocked.

He always locked it.

Inside, nothing was touched — nothing except the walls.

There were fingerprints in the dust.

Long streaks.

As if someone had dragged their hands across every surface.

And then he saw it:

A faint message traced on the hallway wall.

YOU CAME BACK.

His heart hammered painfully.

He ran to the landlord’s office.

“What is wrong with that place?” Arman demanded.

The landlord sighed heavily.

“You weren’t supposed to move in,” he said.

“It… chooses people it likes.”

Arman froze.

“It? What is ‘it’?”

“The room,” the landlord whispered.

“Some places become alive. This one… watches. And once it watches you too long, it doesn’t let go.”

Arman grabbed his keys.

“I’m leaving. I’m done. I’m never stepping inside again.”

The landlord shook his head slowly.

“You don’t understand.”

His eyes were sad, almost pitying.

“If you stay away too long… it comes looking.”

That night, Arman stayed at a friend’s house.

At 2:11 AM, he woke to the familiar freezing air.

He turned his head slowly.

The chair from his apartment was sitting in the corner of the guest room.

Facing him.

And behind it…

A patch of shadow on the wall deepened, pulsing gently, like a breathing creature.

A voice whispered from inside it:

“You can’t leave home.”

And the room opened.