Whispers from Apartment 413

Apartment 413 had turned into something of a neighborhood rumor.

Three people had lived there in the past year. None stayed more than a month. Two just... vanished. Their stuff was still there, phones dead, rent unpaid. The third tenant? He left in the middle of the night without telling anyone. All he said to the landlord before speeding off was:

“They whisper even when you’re awake.”

That one line stuck in my head like a splinter.

I’m a part-time paranormal blogger (okay, more like a low-budget ghost hunter with a YouTube channel that barely hits 100 views). My channel, GhostStream, usually covers abandoned houses and “haunted” hiking trails. But this? This sounded different. Like actual danger. Like viral-level content.

So I booked the place.

Mr. Jensen—the landlord—looked like he’d rather not rent it out at all. I told him it was just for one night and that I’d record everything for “liability.” I didn’t mention I was livestreaming.

He gave me a long, unreadable stare, then handed over the keys.

“Leave the lights on,” he said.

I half-laughed.

“What, is the electricity haunted too?”

No smile. Just a flat, chilling reply:

“Sometimes the dark listens better.”

Creepy. But I liked it. Perfect line for my cold open.

I got there at around 8:45 PM. The building wasn’t falling apart or anything, but it felt... off. Not haunted exactly—just hollow. Like a place that had been lived in and forgotten, over and over.

I started the stream at 9:00 PM sharp:

“Spending the night in the haunted Apartment 413—LIVE. Let’s see what happens.”

The apartment was bare. One bedroom, tiny kitchen, cheap ceiling fan that clicked every few seconds like it was trying to stay awake. Nothing screamed “ghost”—until I opened the closet in the bedroom.

The inside of the door was covered in scratches.

At first, I thought it was just damage from something being shoved against it. But no—these were names. Etched deep. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Some so layered and overlapping, they looked like carvings on a tree, faded but still there.

9:02 PM.

My chat blew up.

user37: “What’s that behind you?”

GhostGal91: “Dude I HEARD something. Whispering!!”

ModDanny: “Stream’s lagging. You okay?? Say something.”

And then it happened.

I didn’t hear a scream or footsteps—just this… tearing noise. Like paper ripping inside my ear. And then a whisper, as close as breath:

“…we are not gone…”

I turned fast. Nothing.

Just the closet.

Still open. Still full of those names.

When I tried to speak, I couldn’t. My throat felt tight. Like something was crawling up from inside me, pressing against my windpipe, keeping my voice buried.

The lights flickered once. Then my phone screen cut to black.

Next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor. My phone—smashed. Time—3:17 AM. Six hours gone.

The air smelled like burnt plastic and ozone. My ears were ringing, but behind that, I heard them again.

Whispers.

Not angry. Just… mournful. Like they were tired.

“You were supposed to tell them.”

“Now you’re part of us.”

“Welcome home.”

I ran. No gear, no bag. Just out.

The next morning, my inbox was chaos.

“Where’s the video?”

“Was the stream real?”

“Why did it stop at 2 minutes?”

I checked my storage.

All files—gone.

Except one screenshot.

It showed me, in that room.

And just behind me—

A gray hand, reaching out of the closet.

I never went back.

But I check the listings sometimes.

Apartment 413 is still empty.

And Mr. Jensen?

Still says the same thing:

“Sometimes… the dark listens better.”

So if you're ever apartment hunting, and unit 413 is still available...

Ask yourself: Do you really want to be the next name on the closet door?

© 2025 by [Talha Maroof]