The Room With No Windows

When I first moved into the old apartment building downtown, the landlord gave me one rule: “Don’t go near Room 6B.”

I thought he was joking. The place was falling apart anyway—peeling wallpaper, flickering lights, and creaky wooden floors that groaned under every step. Why would one room matter more than the rest?

For weeks, I ignored it. My life was routine: work, home, sleep. But every night around 3 a.m., I heard it. A faint knocking sound—slow, deliberate, coming from behind the door of 6B.

At first, I told myself it was pipes or maybe a neighbor. But the building was nearly empty. And the sound always came at the same time.

Curiosity finally got the better of me. One night, I crept into the hallway, barefoot, heart pounding. The numbers on the doors were faded, but I counted carefully until I stood in front of 6B.

The door was wrong. Unlike the others, it was spotless, freshly painted, almost new. No scratches, no dust. And it was cold—freezing, like standing in front of a refrigerator.

The knocking stopped the moment I touched the handle.

I ran back to my room.

The next morning, I asked the landlord about it. He shook his head.

“6B doesn’t exist anymore. Forget it.”

But that night, the knocking grew louder. This time, it wasn’t just knocking—it was scratching, like nails dragging across wood.

Sleep was impossible. At 3:15, I returned to the hallway. My hand trembled as I turned the handle. The door creaked open.

Inside, there were no windows. Just walls painted in a sickly gray, and the smell of damp earth. The room was empty… except for a single chair in the center.

I stepped inside, my breath visible in the icy air. That’s when the door slammed shut behind me.

I spun around, but the door was gone. The wall was solid.

And then I heard breathing—deep, ragged, coming from the corner. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was tall, too tall, its head scraping the ceiling. Its face was hidden, but its mouth stretched unnaturally wide, filled with jagged teeth.

It whispered my name.

I don’t remember how I got out. I woke up the next morning in my own bed, drenched in sweat, nails broken and bleeding. The hallway outside was normal, and the door to 6B was gone, as if it had never existed.

But last night, at exactly 3 a.m., I heard it again.

The knocking.

Coming from inside my own closet.