Whispers From Apartment 313

Zara had only lived in the Marlowe Apartments for three days before she noticed the missing door.

Her unit, 312, sat at the end of the grimy, flickering hallway. When she first moved in, she hadn’t paid much attention. The wallpaper was peeling, the lights buzzed with a low electric hum, and the elevator groaned like it carried the weight of the dead. Still, she was broke and desperate, and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions. That was good enough.

But something was wrong with the layout.

Room 311. Room 312. Then… 314.

There was no 313.

At first, Zara thought it was a weird superstition thing — like hotels skipping the 13th floor — but when she asked the janitor, he froze.

“There’s no 313,” he said, eyes avoiding hers. “Never was.”

That night, as she lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, she heard it.

A soft knocking. From the wall.

Three slow, deliberate knocks. Right behind the headboard.

She held her breath. Was it the neighbors? Pipes? But the wall behind her room was supposed to be a sealed unit. She’d seen it. A boarded-up door between 312 and 314, wrapped in faded caution tape, padlocked shut, dust gathered like a warning.

The next night, it happened again. The knocking. Then — faint, almost a whisper — her name.

“…Zara…”

She bolted upright in bed. Her heart pounded. She didn’t know anyone here. No one should know her name.

She pushed her ear to the wall. Nothing. Just silence.

In the morning, she told herself it was a dream. Sleep deprivation. Stress. But she didn’t sleep that night. The whispers came again — and this time they were louder, clearer.

“…please… let me out…”

That’s when she started looking.

In the back of the kitchen cupboard, behind cracked plaster and splinters, she found a small hole — and inside it, a leather-bound journal. Dusty, decayed, but still readable. It belonged to a woman named Elena. The first entry was dated 1998.

“I hear them. Behind the walls. The landlord says it’s rats, but rats don’t knock. Rats don’t whisper your name at 3 a.m.”

Zara flipped through the pages. The entries grew darker.

“Apartment 313 was sealed after the fire. They said everyone died. But something was left behind. Something that calls to the living.”

“It watches through the cracks. Last night, the door was open just a sliver. I think it’s learning how to get out.”

The final entry was short, smeared in something that looked like dried blood.

“If you're reading this — don't knock back.”

Zara’s hands trembled. She looked at the wall again.

The next night, the knocking started earlier.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She sat frozen in bed, heart in her throat. It was louder now — closer. It felt like whatever was behind the wall knew she had read the journal. Knew she was listening.

Against every instinct, she stood up and approached the wall. Slowly. Barefoot on creaking floorboards.

The knocking stopped.

Then, a low voice — rasping, angry, hungry.

“…I’m still here…”

Suddenly, the room went cold. Her breath clouded in the air. The lightbulb flickered violently and burst, plunging the room into darkness. She backed away, stumbled, and fell.

And then came the scratching. Like nails dragging along the inside of the wall. Frantic. Desperate.

She didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she packed her things. But when she tried the door, it wouldn’t open. Deadbolt unlocked. Chain off. Still, it held firm. Like something didn’t want her to leave.

From down the hallway, she heard the creak of the sealed door — the one that wasn’t supposed to open. She stepped into the hall.

The door to 313 was ajar.

The caution tape had fallen. The padlock lay rusted and broken on the floor. Cold air leaked from the crack.

Zara stared at it. Her body told her to run. But her mind — or something else — pulled her forward.

She reached out and touched the door.

It flung open with a howl.

Darkness poured out like a flood. Inside, there was no room. Just black — endless and pulsing. And within that blackness: eyes. Dozens of them. All staring back.

Zara screamed — but no sound came. Her body went numb. Shadows reached out and pulled her in, silent as death.

By the time the landlord came to inspect later that day, Apartment 312 was empty. The door to 313 was sealed again. No one saw it open. No one saw her leave.

But late at night, the new tenant in 312 hears knocking behind the wall.

And sometimes, if he listens closely…

He swears he hears someone whisper…

“…please… let me out…”