The Woman in Apartment 313

I moved into the building on a Tuesday. A quiet, red-brick complex tucked behind an old gas station. It was cheap, semi-furnished, and available immediately — which was all I needed after my breakup.

I lived on the third floor. Apartment 309.

The first time I saw her, she was standing by the vending machine in the hallway, barefoot, wearing a pale pink nightgown. Her hair was long and tangled, her eyes hollow but kind.

She looked at me and smiled.

“New?” she asked softly.

“Yeah. Just moved in.”

She nodded. “Welcome to the third floor.”

Then she turned and walked toward Apartment 313 — the one at the very end of the hallway.

Her door creaked open and closed behind her.

I didn’t think much of it. People are weird in apartment buildings. That’s just life.

Two days later, I saw her again.

Same hallway. Same pink nightgown. Same empty eyes.

But this time, she wasn’t standing by the vending machine. She was just... standing. Dead still. As if she’d been there for hours.

She looked at me.

Smiled.

I gave her a nod and kept walking.

When I turned around, she was gone.

By the end of the first week, I started having trouble sleeping.

The lights in the hallway would flicker randomly. I’d hear soft scratching sounds from the walls — like nails dragging slowly through drywall.

One night, I woke up at 3:13 AM. My door was locked, but I could hear footsteps pacing outside. Barefoot. Soft. Uneven.

I peered through the peephole.

She was standing outside Apartment 313.

Facing the door.

Not moving.

Not knocking.

Just... staring.

I waited. After a while, she turned and walked back into 313.

The door didn’t open.

She just vanished into it.

The next day, I asked the building manager, Rick, about her.

“Apartment 313,” I said casually. “Who lives there?”

He looked up from his coffee. “No one. That unit’s sealed. Been that way for years.”

“No, someone lives there. I’ve seen her. She’s always in a pink—”

Rick cut me off. “You’re not the first to say that. But I’m telling you, it’s empty. I’ve got the only key.”

I didn’t believe him.

That night, I left a sticky note on 313’s door.

“Hi. Just wanted to say hello. -309”

When I came out the next morning, the note was gone.

In its place was a single word, scratched into the wood with something sharp:

“NO.”

I started losing track of time.

I’d go to sleep and wake up in different clothes.

My phone’s voice memos were full of recordings I didn’t remember making.

In one of them, I was whispering, over and over:

“She’s not alive. She’s not real. She’s not alive. She’s not real…”

One night, I snapped.

I grabbed a flashlight and waited by 313’s door.

At exactly 3:13 AM, she appeared — stepping silently into the hallway like she’d always been there.

She turned slowly toward me.

This time, she didn’t smile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice trembling.

Her head tilted to one side.

“You left the door open.”

“What?”

Then she turned and walked through the door of 313 — not opening it, not touching the handle. She passed through it like smoke.

The door stayed solid.

Sealed.

Like it had never moved.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The lights, the scratches, the voice memos, the dreams — the hallway that always seemed longer at night than during the day.

I packed my bags and left before dawn.

I didn’t even ask for my deposit back.

A few weeks later, I got curious.

I searched the building online.

Nothing unusual came up... until I dug deeper.

Fifteen years ago, a woman named Sarah lived in Apartment 313.

Divorced. Isolated. No family.

She was found dead in her bathroom. A suicide. Pink nightgown. Empty pill bottles.

Neighbors reported they “hadn’t seen her in days” but remembered her being “quiet and polite, always smiling.”

The photo in the article?

It was her.

The woman I’d seen.

The one who welcomed me to the third floor.

Sometimes I wonder if she ever really left that hallway.

If she still waits for someone to notice her.

To talk to her.

To leave a note.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up with that same scratching sound in my ears.

And I check my door.

And I listen for footsteps.

Barefoot.

Soft.

Uneven.

Would you open the door?

💸 Tipping Message :

If this story gave you chills or kept you reading late into the night, feel free to leave a tip! Every little bit helps me create more haunting tales just like this. Thank you for supporting indie horror — and remember, not every door should be opened. 👻💀

#Horror

#GhostStories

#Paranormal

#HauntedApartments

#CreepyEncounters

#Supernatural

#UrbanLegends

#ScaryStories

#TrueGhostStoryVibes

#LateNightReads