Voices in the Walls of Apartment 407

I never believed in ghosts. In fact, I laughed at people who did.

That was before I moved into Apartment 407.

It was the start of winter when I shifted into the small two-bedroom flat in the heart of the city. The rent was suspiciously cheap for the area, but the building manager simply shrugged and said, “The last tenant moved out in a hurry. You know how people are.” He handed me the keys and avoided eye contact.

I should’ve known something was off from the moment I stepped inside.

The air inside the apartment felt… thick. Like the walls were holding their breath. But I brushed it off. I was tired, broke, and just needed a roof over my head.

For the first few days, everything was normal—well, almost. At night, when the city quieted down, I began to hear faint whispers. At first, I thought it was coming from the neighbors. The building was old; the walls were thin. That’s all it was—right?

But the thing is, the whispers weren’t coming from the sides. They were coming from inside the walls.

On the fifth night, I lay in bed trying to fall asleep when I heard a voice, clear and soft, whisper:

“Don’t let them in.”

I sat up, heart pounding. “Hello?” I called out into the darkness. No reply. Just silence. And then, the whisper again, even closer:

“They’re watching.”

I turned on every light in the apartment that night.

The next morning, I stormed down to the building manager’s office. “Has anyone else complained about strange sounds?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

He looked at me, tired and irritated. “Apartment 407, huh?”

That told me everything I needed to know.

He sighed. “Look, there’ve been... stories. People say they hear things. But the plumbing’s old. The walls creak. Don’t let your imagination run wild.”

Imagination. That’s what everyone says—until it’s too late.

That night, the voices came back. Louder. Closer. Whispering things I couldn’t fully understand. Sometimes a name. Sometimes a warning.

“Sarah… he’s coming…”

“Get out… get out… get out…”

By the end of the week, I stopped sleeping altogether. I began recording the sounds with my phone. But every time I played it back, all I got was static.

I started researching the apartment, desperate for answers.

And then I found it.

Three years ago, a woman named Sarah Malik had lived in Apartment 407. She had filed multiple complaints about noises and shadows in her flat. Her last message to her landlord read:

“If anything happens to me, it’s in the walls.”

She was found dead in the bathtub two days later. Cause of death: ruled as suicide. But the neighbors claimed they heard screaming the night before—screaming coming from inside the walls.

I was done. I packed my bags that night and booked a motel. But as I was leaving, I heard it again. The voice. Louder than ever.

“You can’t leave. Not yet.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered. The temperature dropped. My phone went black. And then—I heard footsteps inside the walls.

That was when I saw it.

A crack in the paint, just above the bedroom closet. It looked like part of the drywall had been patched recently. I grabbed a chair, climbed up, and pushed. The wall gave in slightly—hollow.

I pulled out a knife and cut around the drywall seam.

Behind it was a small hidden space, just large enough for a person to crouch in. Inside, I found what looked like an old tape recorder, a child’s drawing, and a diary soaked in mold.

The diary belonged to Sarah.

“They crawl through the walls. They whisper things. I thought I was going mad… but it’s real. There’s something in this building. It feeds on fear.”

I heard it then—a scratch, inches behind me.

I spun around.

Nothing.

But the walls were still whispering.

It’s been six months since I left Apartment 407. I now live in a different city, in a new apartment. Quiet place. No voices.

But some nights, when everything is still, and the room goes cold…

…I hear them again.

Whispers.

Faint. Familiar.

“You can’t escape what lives in the walls.”